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THE 



POET SCOUT 



A BOOK OF SONG AND STORY. 



Xi 



CAPTAIN JACK CRAWFORD 

{Late Chief of Scouts, U. 8. Army.) 




FUNK & WAGNALLS: 

NEW YORK : LONDON : 

1886. 
10-12 De\ Street. <x» 44 Fleet Street. 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1886, by 

FUNK & WAGNALLS, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C. 

All Eights Reserved. 
Registered at Stationers' Hall, London, England. 



PREFACE. 



In" the publication of the sketches and poems m the follow- 
ing pages I have no thought of grasping literary or poetical 
distinction. They are the crude, unpolished offspring of my 
idle hours — wandering thoughts which came to me on the 
lonely trail and in the bivouac and camp. They were written 
with no studied effort, but are the spontaneous bubblings from 
a heart whose springs of poesy and poetic thought were opened 
by the hand of Nature amid her roughest scenes. In the selec- 
tions herein produced many past incidents of an adventurous 
life have reproduced themselves on the memory, and taken the 
shape of verse. That they are crude and rough and lack the 
polished finish of the droppings from more gifted pens, I freely 
admit, and I would therefore beg the critics to spare them. 

I have never figured as a hero of fiction or dime novels, and 
have refused to allow my name to be used in connection with 
that kind of literature ; hence I come before you with my " Poet 
Scout" in a measure unheralded. I had a Christian mother, 
my earliest recollection of whom was kneeling at her side, 
praying God to save a wayward father and husband. That 
mother taught me to speak the truth when a child, and I have 
tried to follow her early teachings in that respect. It would 
require a much larger book than this to tell the story of my 
life and the sufferings of one of God's good angels — my 
mother. To her I owe everything — truth, honor, sobriety, 



11 PREFACE. 

and even my very life. Her spirit seems to linger near me 
always ; she has been my guardian angel. In the camp, the 
cabin, the field, and the hospital, on the lonely trail, hundreds 
of miles from civilization, in the pine-clad hills and lonely 
canons, I have heard in the moaning night winds and in the 
murmuring streamlets 

The voice of my angel mother 
Whispering soft and low. 

And these sacred thoughts have made me forget at times 

that there was danger in my pathway. Nor will I ever 

forget 

The day that we parted, mother and I, 

Never on earth to meet again ; 
She to a happier home on high, 

1 a poor wanderer over the plain. 

That day was perhaps the greatest epoch in my life. Kneel- 
ing by her bedside, with one hand clasped in mine, the other 
resting upon my head, she whispered: " My boy, you know 
your mother loves you. Will you give me a promise, that I 
may'take it up to heaven ?" " Yes, yes, mother ; I will prom- 
ise you anything." "Johnny, my son, I am dying," said 
she ; "promise me you will never drink intoxicants, and then 
it will not be so hard to leave this world." Dear reader, need 
I tell you that I promised " Yes ;" and whenever I am asked 
to drink, that scene comes up before me, and I am safe. 

AVith these few words I launch my little craft upon the 
great sea of literature, trusting that it may sail smoothly and 
weather every gale. 

John Wallace Crawford. 



CONTENTS 



PAGB 

PREFACE t 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 5 

MUSTERED OUT 19 

THE HEROES DEPARTED 20 

THE MINERS HOME 23 

RATTLIN' JOES PRAYER 23 

THE TENDERFOOT 27 

LITTLE ONES PRAYING AT HOME 28 

BALD MOUNTAIN 29 

THE MOUNTAIN BOY'S LETTER 31 

NOTES IN A CAMP-MEETING 32 

DREAMING OF MOTHER 35 

CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER 36 

YOU ARE WANTED AT HOME 45 

TRUTH 46 

THE HAPPY-GO-LUCKY TRAMP 47 

OUR PROSPECT 4!) 

WILD BILLS GRAVE 40 

"HE DIED FOR ME" 52 

A MOUNTAIN GIRL'S LETTER 55 

TO MRS. I. P. JENKS 58 

SOMEBODY 60 

THE BURIAL OF WILD BILL 61 

I'M SAD TO-NIGHT 63 

NATURES TREASURES 65 

MY MOUNTAIN HOME 67 

SPRING IN THE BLACK HILLS 68 

THE WELCOME HOME 70 

HOOD'S CHILDREN 71 

SOMEDAY 73 

ONLY A MINER KILLED 74 

WE MEET AGAIN 75 

MY LITTLE NEW LOG CABIN IN THE HILLS 77 

FAREWELL, OLD CABIN HOME 78 

IT'S ONLY A DIME SI 

NEW YEAR'S DAY IN THE BLACK HILLS 82 

THE RUINED VIRGINIA S3 

IRENE IS DEAD 85 

AMONG THE PEAKS 87 

FAREWELL TO OUR CHIEF 88 

DEATH OF LITTLE KIT 90 

UNDER THE SN >W 93 

THE DYING SCOUT 94 

PERHAPS 96 

SANDY'S REVENGE 98 

CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE BLACK HILLS 100 



IV CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE OLD TRAPPER'S EELIGTON 101 

THE SCOUTS REQUEST BEFORE THE BATTLE 104 

THE DEATH OP CUSTER 106 

COMRADE, WHY THIS LOOK OP SADNESS ? 103 

BY THE LAKE 110 

GOD BLESS YE, GENER'L CUSTER 112 

NEVER GIVE UP THE SHIP 113 

MUSING 115 

AN EPITAPH ON WILD BILL 117 

GRIZZLY JAKE 118 

BIRDS OP THE HUDSON BAY 121 

MY IDEAS 122 

THE PROSPECTOR'S SOLILOQUY 123 

THE MIXER'S DREAM— XMAS EVE 124 

OUR NUGGET 128 

BUFFALO CHIPS, THE SCOUT 130 

TO JAMES G. FAIR 132 

CUSTER 133 

GOOD-B Y 136 

THE FIRST THAT DIED 136 

THOSE EYES 137 

THE PICNIC BY THE BROOK 138 

AFTER TAPS 139 

KIT CARSON 140 

TO CHARLEY 141 

ODE TO CARIBOO FRIENDS 142 

OUR " JACK " 1 43 

UNDER THE SOD 145 

THE OLD MINER 146 

MY OWN MOUNTAIN TREE 147 

MOTHER'S PRAYERS 148 

"CORPORAL BILL" 150 

THE VETERAN AND HIS GRANDSON 153 

LILLIE 156 

MY BIRTHDAY 157 

LITTLE REVILEE i 158 

DECORATION DAY 160 

OUR MARTYRED DEAD , 163 

OFF TO THE PICNIC 165 

CATOS IDEAS 166 

MY HERO 167 

THE GRAVE OP MY MOTHER 171 

NORA LEE 172 

OUR FIRST REUNION AND CAMP FIRE 173 

THE RANGERS' RETREAT 176 

THE POOR MAN'S SOLILOQUY 177 

THE FIRST FLOWER OF MAY 180 

FAREWELL 181 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

BY LEIGH IRVINE. 

A ruddy drop of manly blood 

The surging sea outweighs.— Emerson. 

Sixce the earliest eras of myth and fable all races have paid homage to 
heroism. There is in the constitution of man a tendency to hero-worship, and 
power always commands a certain reverence. We never tire of believing in the 
resources of Nature and in the hidden possibilities of man ; hence we are ever 
encouraged to learn of any unusual feats of our fellow-men. Revelations 
of virtue, courage, skill, and remarkable powers of endurance are always received 
with wonder and pleasure, for they help to build in the mind a hope. They lead 
us to believe that " what man has done man can do," and to trust in the benefi- 
cence of Nature. Almost any stories of the exploits of men are interesting if 
true, provided they give us a new insight into the history of the human mind. 
However humble the actor or rugged the scene in which he is depicted, it is 
io a certain sense MAN acting and living under the vaiied circumstances of the 
age and country in which the special agent is stationed. 

It is wonderful what a fascination is inwoven with stories of life in the far 
West! Tales of frontier times charm us and hold our attention even as did the 
legends and Arabiau fictions of boyhood days. The very landscapes in the 
country of the seiting sun are vast and awe-inspiring, and they seem to com- 
municate to man somewhat of their own broad proportions. It has been the 
universal conclusion of careful observers that men who go from old settle- 
ments in the East to the mining regions or plains of the West become broad- 
minded, good-nntured, and liberal if there were any such tendencies in their 
characters. The Western man is noticeable for his frankness and generosity : 
and even though his manner be strikingly unconventional there is seldom a 
question that his motive has origin in good-fellowship. Who that has ever 
known a genuine frontiersman of '49 can forget his open hospitality? In 



VI BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

his presence one feels that all is clear as the diamond mornings of June. 
There is no need of condescension or apology for anything. The lugged child 
of the mountains stands firmly on his feet, as much as to say that all men exist 
by inalienable right. Hypocrisy, greed, stinginess, and all petty quibbling are 
forgotten. His smallest measure of value for years was four or five times what 
we pay for a loaf of bread or a glass of beer, and his "dust" is divided with 
a generosity that puts to shame the liberality we have known in other lands. 
I have never looked upon these Atlantean-shouldeied giants of the new West 
without feeling in a certain sense that they grew thus rich in physical powers 
and cleverness from contemplating the bounty of Nature, the plentilulness of 
landscape, the wastes of mountains and plains. A certain grandeur attaches even 
to the aiched sky and silent stars when beheld from high mountains or viewed 
from the depths of grand canons walled with sublime rocks and mountains 
crowned with peaks of perennial snow. Buckle's theory that the vast moun- 
tains of Asia make the inhabitants superstiiious and cowardly may be true ; but 
the "Rockies" and Sierras of the American continent seem to inspire men 
with courage and renewed confidence in the strength of manhood. The game 
statement is true of the boundless plains of the West. Tbe cow-boy stands as a 
perpetual contradiction to any philosophy which teaches that tbe vasmess of 
Nature makes man believe in his own insignificance. He has never had any 
misgivings as to his right to life, liberty, and happiness after his own fashion. 

It is comparatively seldom that one meets a real hero in the We-t. one 
entitled in any high and philosophic sense to be classed with men of extraoi dinary 
powers. There are many to whom is due the credit of personal intrepidi'v, for 
their valor goes without question. They are bold in danger and fearless in the 
presence of mortal foes. Like the old Spartan gladiators, who were willing to 
face man or beast in the arena of bloody combat, they do not fear sanguinary 
conflicts, and their courage remains unabated to the end. But physical valor 
alone is not the full measure of heroism. Life is more than a series of conflicts, 
and its true rewards do not rest purely on a physical basis. The greatest 
man, the most heroic man, must lead alife which spans a wider field than animal 
endurance or good-fellowship. The true hero does not forget lhat man has 
an intellectual and a moral side in his nature. The old heroes were supposed 
to be children of the gods, and the goo's were not of the :6V sh, but of the mind 
or spirit. " The gods of fable are the shining moments of great men." Nothing 
is truer than that the mind is in a h'gh degree the measure of the man. The 
highest unit is, therefore, one that deals not alone with acts of physical bravery, 
but with the mental life as well. 

Men who have the courage to think for themselves are rare, and those whose 
thoughts are morally pure and clear with the light of truth are rarer still. 
It is one of the most difficult of tasks to think, and next to this is to give a 
thought skilful expression, the clothing of clear language. Then how are we to 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. vii 

estimate a man who, amid the conflicts of Indian warfare and the surroundings 
of miners' camps, not only acquired a fair education, but learned to commune 
w.th Nature and long for the inspiration of her divine afflatus? Has he not 
interesting elements in his mental constitution, and such a faithfulness to the 
true ideals of life as to attract admiration ? This higher heroism demands a finer 
feeling and rarer powers than the simple conquests due to bone, muscle, 
dapper exploits, and animal courage. If we find in one individual the com- 
bined beauties of an active mind, a brave spirit and great physical courage, he 
becomes exceedingly interesting. We long to know him, to see and feel his 
personality. Such a man is Captain J. W. Crawford, familiarly known as 
"Captain Jack." His ambition for self culture never flagged for a moment, 
whether on the soldier's march or by the trapper's lonely fireside. 

Captain Crawford's character is unique, and his life is full of incident. He is a 
rare example of a brave frontiersman, with a fine mind and a tender heart. 
Border life seems to have made him gentle rather than to have hardened him, 
while the grandeur of nature moved him to write poetry. At first glance it seems 
that there is an incompatibility between an Indian scout and a poet, and maDy 
persons are loath to believe that a man whose life was spent in frontier pursuits 
and Indian warfare can write readable poetry. It was, however, the theory of 
Macaulay that poets thrived in early ages, and that civilization is necessarily de- 
structive of bards. If this is. true, there is something worthy of consideration 
in the fact that the great West more nearly fulfils the condi ions named by 
Macau'ay as being favorable to the production of poetry than any other part of 
the American continent. The primeval forests, the " wild torrents fiercely glad," 
and the wealth of vast wastes in nature combine to give to minds of poetic ten- 
dencies that fulness of imagination and love of the beautiful which the complex- 
ities of civilization in crowded cities render in a manner impossible. If there is 
any music in a man's soul, it will find expression amid the primal scenes of the 
lands where Captain Crawfoid spent many years of his life, hearing voices in 
the air " as of nymphs that haunt the mountain summits and the n'vtr founts, and 
the moist, grassy meadows." The power of feeling the impressions made by Na- 
ture on the mind and heart is one of the first requisites of the poet. A broad, 
good-bearted man, whose life leads in rugged paths, learns to know the value of 
friendship and to recognize true manhood at a glance. In the same surroundings 
he becomes an expert at detecting hypocrisy. Many of the poet scout's ballads 
celebrate the homely virtues of every- day life, or remove from deceit its hollow 
mask. His vocabulary abounds in expressions which glorify the graces of 
simple manhood, aud for this reason even his rudest lines of dialect imitation 
have a beauty and freshness that are admirable. Such verses readily become popu- 
lar with the masses, and nothing is more frequent than to hear some of his lines 
familiarly quoted in certain parts of the West where they have been published. 
The poem entitled "Rattlin' Joe's Prayer " has long been a favorite selection with 



Vlll BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

many elocutionists and public readers. Though it is one of the roughest poems 
he has written, and Ihough it abounds in slang.it is a perfect picture of the 
phase of life with which it deals. Where is a verse that gives a more satisfac- 
tory glimpse into the rude life of a miner than the following? 

"I'm lost on the rules o' yer game, but I'll ax 
Fur a seat fur him back o' yer throne. 
And I'll bet my whole stack that the boy'll behave, 
If yer angels jist lets him alone." 

A striking example from a poem which abounds in the lessons of justice, and 
which contains throughout a commendable philosophy, is found in the first 
verse of "Hood's Children,'' a poem first read at a G. A. R. entertainment for 
their benefit in San Francisco. The sentence is as follows: 

" Dear comrades and friends in the golden land, 

You may say I'm rough, you may call me Wild, 
But I've got a heart and a willing hand 
To feel and to work for a soldier's child." 

A verse from a little poem suggested by a New York newsboy's contribution 
to the Grant monument fund is also in point : 

" And, boys, who knows, though his dad is dead, 
This peer of your snob galoots 
May be carving his way to the nation's head, 
Selling papers and blacking boots." 

No one has ever claimed that any of Captain Crawford's poetry is comparable 
to the transcendental musings of an Emerson or the classic songs of Tennysou 
orHolmes; but there is in them a simple melody and a sentiment ever dear to 
the masses of mankind. Burns and Moore wrote on themes of no wider scope than 
those embraced within the catalogue of subjects essayed by Captain Crawford. 
In his most unfinished songs there is often a vigor, freshness, and originality 
which hold the attention, even if they do violence to Ihe rhetoric of the reader. 
As a writer in the New York Herald a few years ago said : " If his verses had 
no other merit, they might be commended to the other Westtrn dialect 
poets as a genuine fount of raw material for them to draw from.'' The collection 
is a kind of kaleidoscope, into which each reader must look for himself and then 
iudge whether the colors and arrangement of colors are good. It must never be 
forgotten that every line he ever wrote was produced under the disadvantages 
of a fragmentary education, gained during the storms and confl cts of adult life. 
Considering him as a back woods man, a nun without the advantages of culture, 
whose mature life has been passed mainly upon the cheerless plains, in contest 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. ix 

with savages and in the society of the Western barrack-room and the trapper's 
hut, he is a wonderful personage. Under different training the rough diamond 
of his nature would have sparkled in the light of the literary world. 

While considering this phase of the man's life, it may be of interest to many 
persons to know something of his methods in writing. An anonymous writer in 
the Grand Army Magazine for March, 1883, says that he is at times a very rapid 
composer. The following incident is cited : 

"I asked Jack to return to town with me and talk over old times. On our 
arrival at Chloride, and after the usual questions as to old comrades had been 
answered, I said : 

"'Well, Jack, I understand you have published a book of your poetry. 
I'll tell you what I wish you would do for me as a favor: just prove to these 
friends of mine around here that you can write. They are not skeptical, vet 
I would like to show them what you can do, and how quick you can do it.' 

"Jack replied : 'All right; give me a subject, and I'll write you a verse or 
two.' 

"Some one of our friends replied : ' Give us a song, with a regular miner's 
chorus.' 

" I won't swear to it, but this I will say, as I had no watch, that in fifteen 
minutes Jack handed me a poem." 

The writer then describes how the performance astonished the company. The 
following two verses from that extemporaneous effort may serve to give the 
reader some sort of insight into the man and his methods : 

" Hear the music of the hammer, 

As it bounds from rock and drill ; 
See the ore piled near the windlass 

As it glistens on the hill; 
Hear the ' giant' cannonading, 

Throwing out its prectous load, 
And the merry song at evening 

In the miner's log abode. 

" There's a vein of love and pathos 

In each hardy miner's breast, 
And the thoughts of home and lov'd ones, 

As he liys him down to rest, 
Are as sweet to him — though humble — 

As the king upon bis throne, 
For the miner's heart oft lingers 

With the loving ones at home." 



X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

Being introduced to a beautiful young lady in 1875 named Franke Bailey, she 
asked Captain Jack to write an acrostic on her name, and in less than two 
minutes he handed her the following: 

"Fairest flower, didst ever mortal eyes 
Regard thee with a more enraptured stare? 
Ah, Miss, in thee I see a lovely prize; 
Nor is there one in Eden half so fair. 
Kings might long to kiss and e'en caress thee, 
Esteemed by all the good— God bless thee. 
But I, alas ! an uncouth, rustic cuss, 
And little schooled to etiquette and such, 
I only ask thy friendship firm, and thus 
Look upon thpe — a friend — I a>k not much, 
Ever to dream of thee when all alone, 
Your form, my queen, I'll kneel before thy throne." 

These are but two examples in hundreds that might be given to show how this 
original man feels, thinks, and write*. Let these illustrations suffice. Now 
for the outward man »s known to the crowds of friends who meet him in every- 
day life — the true friend, the jolly companion. 

Captain Crawford's genealogy is traceable to a Scotch origin. John A. 
Crawford, the poet scout's father, led rather an eventful life. He was bom 
near Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1816. When fourteen years old he entered a 
tailoring establishment at Glasgow, and served seven years as an apprentice, 
and then went to London to fini>h his trade. After two years he returned to 
Glasgow. Here he nude political speeches, advocated a free form of govern- 
ment, and was banished, a price being put on his head. He fled and hid in Rob 
Roy's cave, where he was fed for six weeks by an old Scotch lady called 
Granny McGregor, when a fishing-smack picked him up and carried him to the 
north coast of Ireland. Here he married Su«ie Wallace, the daughter of another 
refugee, and a descendant of Sir William, the Scotch chief. The elder Crawford 
was a fine tailor, a jolly companion, and a good elocutionist and reciter of 
Scotch selections. He was a temperate man until he married, when it seems 
he acquired a ta*te for strong drink. To escape from dissolute associates, he 
sailed for America in 1854, leaving his wife and five children, of whom Jack was 
the third, in Ireland. For four vears the mother struggled to support them, 
receiving little assistance from her husband. Then she left her children with 
an uncle, James Wallace, and came to America, joining her husband at Miners- 
ville, Pa. He promised to reform, and partly did so. The children were sent for, 
and came to Pennsylvania but the father did little for them, and the boys were 
obliged to work in the coal mines. Here, at the breaking out of the rebe'lion, 
we find Jack picking slate at a coal mine at $1.75 per week. His father was 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XI 

one of the first men to respond to the original call for 75,000 volunteers. He 
served gallantly under Captain George Lawrence, with ihe Ringgolds. He was 
twice badly wounded, once at Antietam and once at Cold Harbor. Jack soon 
ran away, and enlisted when he was not quite sixieen years old Governor Curtin 
sent him home twice from Harrisburgh, because he was young and small. He 
made a third attempt, and joined the 48 h Pennsylvania volunteers, getting fully 
into the war in time to be twice wounded, first at Spottsylvania, May 12tb, 1864, 
and then at Petersburg, April 2i, 1865. The severest wound was received at 
Spottsylvania Court-House while charging the confederate woiks. He was 
carried to Washington and later to Saterlee Hospital at West Philadelphia. 
Here it was that he learned to read and write under the instruction of a Sister 
of Charity, for the necessity of earning a living for his mother and the other 
members of the family had deprived him of ihe advantage of schooling. 

His father died very shortly after the war from the effects of a severe wound 
in the head, received May 18th, 1864 Just before the death of his father he 
was called upon to bear ihe stronger bereavement of a mother's death ; but be- 
fore she died she asked him to promise never to drink. This story is best told 
by Captain Crawford himself. In a letter dated February 26tb, 1880, addressed 
to Colonel Judson, who had in a story made some erroneous statements about 
him, the Captain says: 

"I desire to ask a particular favor of you. ... In some of your stories you 
make me say I promised some one six months ago that I would not drink, 
etc. Now, my dear Colonel, here is where you touch a tender point. I had a 
sainted, God fearing, and sweet mother, to whom I owe everything. No one but 
the Almighty knows what that mother suffered for me and all her children 
through my father's intemperance. When she was dying she called me to her 
bedside and asked me to promise her I would never drink intoxicants ; and 
although my lips hud never tasted intoxicants before, on my knee3, in the pres- 
ence of my brothers, sisters, and friends, I made her that promise. Colonel, 
as God is my judge, I have faithfully kept it, and will while I live and breathe." 

The Captain has frequently brought such men as Wild Bill to tears by his 
pathetic recital of this incident in his life. Once Wild Bill said, after hearing 
Jack recite a poem called "Mother's Prayers," which is based on that promise, 
"God bless you, Jack; you strike a tender spot, old boy, when you talk 
mother that way." 

Soon after his mother's death Jack became anxious to try his fortunes in the 
West, stories of which had reached his ears. The death of his mother fell upon 
him as a heavy blow, but despondency was soon drowned in the ocean of hope 
that opened up to htm. The future seemed rich, and its pleasing possibilities 
encouraged him to work like a hero. He obtained a letter from General Hart- 



Xll BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

ranft, which he subsequently got General Sherman to indorse. Armed with 
this and similar credentials, the young man started West, where he located, and 
soon gained the good-will of the frontier military. He soon obtained promo- 
tion, and earned the reputation of being a bold, honest, and skilful scout. He 
was one of the earliest explorers in the Black Hills, chief of the pioneer scouts, 
and one of the founders of Deadwood, Custer City, Crook, Gayville, and Spear- 
fish. In the Indian campaign of 1876 he was second in the command of General 
Crook's scouts, and he superseded Buffalo Bill as chief on August 24th of the 
same year, the latter having resigned. As a scout his record has been signalized 
by singular acts (f bravery. He knows almost every foot of the frontier lands, 
and he is fearless in the presence of danger. In July, 1876, in response to a tele- 
gram, he rode from Medicine Bow, on the U. P. R. R., to Rosebud and Little Big 
Horn, in the Big Horn Mountains, nearly four hundred miles, through a country 
peopled with savage Indians. He carried the New York Herald's account of the 
battle of Slim Buttes to Fort Laramie — three hundred and fifty miles — in Jess 
than four days. For this he received in all $722.75. 

In a letter of introduction given to Captain Crawford, in 1880, by Governor 
Perkins, of California, the Governor said : "He is known as 'Captain Jack,' a 
title gained by his devotion and loyalty to the principles of justice, patriotism, 
and humanity." 

Captain Jack holds credentials entitling him to correspond for some of the best 
daily papers in New York. His letters in many papers have for years attracted 
attention. Besides letters he has written several sketches for magazines, but he 
abhors sensational notoriety. He has often appeared in public as a lecturer and 
reciter of his own poems, always with great success. 

The following life-like portrait, by Edward L. Keyes, late lieutenant of the 
Fifth U. S. Cavalry, will give a fair idea of the man : 

" Being in New Mexico last week, and having a day to spare, I decided 
to renew my acquaintance with Fort Craig, which place I had not seen since 
I camped there in 1875, en route from Arizona to the Indian Territory. 
Imagine my surprise when the first person to greet me, as I neared the 
trader's store, was my old friend and quondam companion, Jack Crawford, or 
'Captain Jack,' the 'Poet Scout,' as he is now called. The meeting was a 
pleasure to us both. I had not seen him since we parted in the Black Hills 
in 1876, at the close of the Sitting Bull expedition, I to return to my post and 
he to follow a fresher trail farther to the south-west. After learning that he 
is post trader, postmaster, post-contractor, etc., not to mention his cattle and 
mining interests, he made me understand that it would be 'bad medicine' 
for me if I spread my blankets outside of his ' wickiupp,' as he termed bis 
domicile. So I joyfully accepted his insinuating invitation. 
■ "Perhaps I could give you a pen portrait of the celebrated scout. He is a 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xiii 

tall, wiry-built man, with a nervous, sensitive face, which his open, frank de- 
meanor dignities when you have once entered into conversation with him. 
His manner is simple and easy, entirely free from affectation. His long, light 
brown hair fulls below his shoulders, and a mustache and goatee of the same 
color ornament his youthful face. A large light felt sombrero crowns his head, 
and his body is covered with a blue s-hirt with wide, flowing collar. Buckskin 
trousers with fringed sides cover his long, muscular legs, and a belt, with a 
' persuader ' attached, usually encircles his waist. He is thirty-eight years of age, 
though he does not look it. He was chief of the scouts during the Sitting Bull 
expedition, in which I look part. It was during th's campaign that he made that 
daring and remarkable ride, carrying dispatches alone four hundred miles, 
through the midst of the foe, riding at night and hiding in the chaparral during 
the day, with the knowledge that if his horse neighed he would be discovered, 
captured, and tortured. 

"We spent the day in recounting half-forgottt-n events of the ' horsemeat' 
campaign, and again, in fancy, roughing it from the Platte to the Yellowstone, 
thence across the Bad Lands to the Black Hills. One incident I recalled which 
caused our conversation to take a poetical turn. I remembered that it was Jack 
Crawford who, while we lay encamped on War Bonnet Creek, Wyoming, 
sent us the sad, shocking intelligence of the gallant Custer's fate. I also 
remembered that soon after he reached our camp he entered my tent, and, 
throwing himself on my blankets, produced a small blank-book from his pocket, 
in which he at once began writing. Though Jack conversed well, his cliiro< r - 
raphy was somewhat peculiar. He hadnever been to schoolinhis life, and at the 
time of which I speak writing was a trail which he had only lately struck. 
Notwi'hstanding this, he was bus'ly engaged jotting down his thoughts. And 
at last I aske>d him what he was doing. ' Wri'ing some verses on the death of 
Custer,' was his reply. Remembering all this as though it had occurred the 
day before, I asked him if his now famous poem on that brave cavalry officer's 
tragic death was the result of that morning's inspiration. I learned that it was." 

But to go farther is useless. In a limited sketch there can be no complete 
picture of such a man. At best there is but an occasional glance, in broken 
outline, at the real man. To be properly estimated with his faults, to which 
all flesh is heir, and' with those qualities which delight thousands who under- 
stand him, he must be known. Through all the vicissitudes of fortune, the 
changes of time and place, no man can say he ever forgot a friend. He holds to 
the saying of Henry Clay, that no new friends can take the place of those we have 
long 'tried and loved.' His socal qualities charm large circles of admirer?, who 
are ever anxious to meet him, while his stories of camp and fie'd, and his inex- 
haustible fund of original Western anecdotes, enrich his earnest conversation in 
a manner singularly pleasing and original. 




A CHAPTER FOR BOYS. 



I wish I could sit down and take every dime-novel-reading little boy in 
America by the hand and point out to him the destination he will reach 
if he persists in reading the vile trash which depicts such Indian scenes 
as never occurred, and points out " blood-and-thunder" heroes who 
never lived, and of such a type as were never heard of in the West. If 
I had the power I would catch every dime-novel publisher in America 
and confine him in prison for life, where he could not pursue his crimi- 
nal work— for it is criminal — and lead so many bright boys to ruin and 
disgrace. My name has never yet figured in one of these trashy con- 
cerns with iuy consent, although I have been offered quite large sums 
by publishers to allow my name to be used as the author of a Western 
story which they would have written by another, just as they do with 
other Western characters whom I could name. It is a great trick on the 
part of publishers to endeavor to secure the names of noted scouts, 
hunters, and actors as authors of the most ridiculous trash that was ever 
printed, and I regret to say that some Western men are so foolish as to 
bite at their glittering bait. But a few weeks since in a New York pub- 
lication I was pained and mortified to see an old picture of myself, pub- 
lished with others, with a flash story, and labelled, if I remember rightly, 
" Broncho Billy." 

The first desire of the average boy after reading a story of Western 
adventure is to go " out West and kill Indians." To a Western man 
this desire is so absurd and ridiculous as to be really laughable. Poor 
little innocent dupes ! Of the many boys who have abandoned their 
homes to exterminate Indians not one in a thousand ever reached the 



16 A CHAPTER FOR BOYS. 

Missouri River, and those who did get beyond that stream invariably 
went to work in kitchens of hotels washing dishes, or served as lackeys 
in some subordinate position until their parents could send for them. 
The poor, blinded boys do not realize that to be efficient in the field as 
a scout a man must have lived in the West for many years ; must be fami- 
liar with every foot of the country, and acquainted with the Indians and 
their haunts and customs. Neither do they cast a thought upon the 
hardships and privations of the life of a scout : exposed to piercing 
cold ; driving, blinding snow storms ; drenching rains ; starvation for 
days at a time ; intensest heat and tongues parched for water in sum- 
mer ; always in danger of death and mutilation at the hands of an 
invisible and cruel foe — these and a thousand other hardships always 
fall to the lot of a scout on the frontier. The men who follow such a 
life do not do it so much from a love of adventure as from a love of the 
big silver dollars which they receive in payment for their services. 

Many of the young men in the penitentiaries of the Western States 
and Territories assert unqualifiedly that they were brought to their 
present shame and disgrace through reading dime novels. They longed 
to be heroes or highwaymen or noted robbers, and their first attempt 
at crime invariably led to their imprisonment for a long term. 

Boys, take the earnest advice of a frontiersman, and stay at home. To 
attempt to gain heroism by following the course pointed out by the pub- 
lishers of vile novels will lead you to disgrace and death, just as surely as 
the night follows the declining day. Learn some good trade or profes- 
sion, and stick to it, and you will grow up beloved and honored by all 
who know you, and your names may some day be written high xip on the 
glittering scroll of fame. Future Presidents of these great United States 
are now but boys, and you may be one of them, little reader, if you will 
apply yourself to study, acquire the principles of truth and manhood, 
and endeavor to fit yourself for the position. Try it, little friend, and 
avoid those damnable dime novels as you would a venomous, hideous 
rattlesnake. They are more dangerous. 



"MUSTERED OUT." 

The following impromptu lines are from the pen of Captain "Jack' 
Crawford, the "Poet Scout." — iV 7 . Y. Evening Telegram, August 'ith, 1885: 

A nation droops her head and weeps ; 

Her tears are honest drops of sorrow ; 
Her honored chief in silence sleeps ; 

We march behind his bier to-morrow. 

To-morrow you who often stood 

Beside him in the fiercest fray 
Will humbly bow, for God is good, , 

Since all can honor him today. 

His valor as a soldier boy, 

His dauntless courage as our chief, 
His honesty without alloy, 

Will ever stand in bold relief. 

Yes, comrades, he is mustered out ; 

His feet have pressed the golden stair, 
His soul has passed o'er heaven's redoubt, 

To be promoted over there. 



20 THE POET SCOUT. 

THE HEEOES DEPARTED. 
Dedicated to my Comrades of the G. A. R. 

Come back, oh come back to us, heroes departed, 
Come back to us comrades aud pass in review, 

Come back, silent chieftain, your comrades are waiting 
To join with the angels in honor of you. 

We muster to-day but a few of that army 

You led on to victor} 7 on many a field, 
And we feel that thy spirit will hover around us, 

Our star that will guide and our hope that will shield. 

We honor thee, first, as our greatest commander, 
Transferred in advance to that heavenlv corps : 

Tell Reno and Sedgwick, tell Burnside and Hooker, 
Tell Abe we are coming a million and more. 

Tell Washington, Warren, tell Baker and Kearney, 
Tell Meade, and my own beloved colonel who fell 

While leading our old Forty-eighth through red blazes, 
Right over the ramparts and into Fort Hell. 

Yes, tell them we're coming, we make no distinction — 
The private who fell with the colors in hand, 

The boy with his drum who has answered death's tattoo, 
Are equal to kings in that greater command. 

And if you can look from the ramparts of heaven, 
To-day your old comrades will pass in review, 

Not en masse, not in column, but scattered and straggling 
Deployed at the front, but all coming to you. 

And you who are draping our dear starry banner. 

That flag of our Union, you fought to maintain, 
Oh, let treason assail it, though aged and hoary, 

And you would go marching to glory again ! 

But hark ! 'tis the voice of the mocking-bird singing 
A sweet song of peace from the cold cannon's mouth, 



THE HEROES DEPARTED. 21 

And the soldier who fought with his back to the southward 
Shakes hands with the one who stood face to the South. 

The brave meet the brave while true feelings fraternal 
Leap into the hearts of the gray and the blue, 

And Johnny cries, "Billy, while you-uns whipped we-uns, 
Oh, we-uns war niakin' it sultry for you. 

" Let bitterness reign among them as war missin', 
When minies war singin' a dirge o'er the brave ; 

For you-uns are happy and we-uns ain't sorry, 

Tis the land of the free, not the home of the slave." 

With malice toward none and with Charity blended, 

Fraternity, Loyalty, peace and good-will, 
We gather to-day to assist one another, 

If need be, in climbing adversity's hill. 

And oh, my dear comrades, look well to the loved ones, 
The soldiers' bequest who have answered tattoo ; 

Be kind to the widow, be kind to the orphan, 
And the Great Chief of all will deal kindly with you. 

A touch of the elbow with shoulder to shoulder, 

A flash of the eye and the grasp of the hand. 
And the soul of the soldier is filled with emotions, 

That none but the brave and the true understand. 

Oh, comrades, forgive me, nor think it is weakness 
That causes these teardrops to spring to my eyes, 

'Tis the purest, the holiest thoughts of a soldier 

Who never yet flinched, and who needs no disguise. 

But think of the chair of our chieftain now vacant, 

So silent at roll call, so sad and so drear ; 
While the angel of death will still add to his roster, 

And many now filled will be vacant next year. 

And when after taps comes the last reveille, 
And "assembly" shall sound from that far-away shore, 

May we meet on parade 'neath the shade of life's tree, 
With Grant, silent chief, at the head of the corps. 



22 THE POET SCOUT. 



THE MINER'S HOME. 

It is not a castle with towering walls, 
With marble floor and stately halls, 
With lovely walks and grand old trees, 
Nodding and bending in the breeze. 

No : his home is an humble cot, 
Perched perchance on the mountain top, 
With tunnels beneath, where the iron horse 
Thunders along on his fiery course. 

Fair Virginia ! above the hill, 
Where miners dig with pick and drill, 
Where honest toilers seek to rest 
Their weary bones upon thy breast. 

A loving wife to make one glad, 
A babe to kiss the miner lad ; 
With this the miner need not roam, 
If he has a cottage, and love at home. 

Mine, though far away from here, 
My cabin home is ever dear. 
Bright memories haunt me every day 
Of that cabin where I often lay, 

And dreamed of eyes of heavenly blue — 
A maiden young and fair and true ; 
Of brighter days and toil's reward, 
A maiden's love for a mountain bard. 

Up the mountain, down the glen, 
Each eve I see these hardy men ; 
With axe and shovel, pick and drill, 
They toil all day with a hearty will. 

And when at e'en their toil is o'er, 
They hasten home to the open door 



eattlin' joe's prayer. 23 

Of the little cot ; though shaggy and grim, 
There's happiness there and love within. 

Though the rooms within are low and small, 
There's whitewash on the old gray wall ; 
The table with its crockery, too, 
Is glistening like the morning dew. 

While all seem happy in the cot, 
The children, sporting on the lot, 
Are merry as a marriage bell, 
And mother whispers, " All is well." 

And now good-bye — I must away, 
My time is up. Yet while I say 
Good bye, I'll wish, where'er I roam, 
That God will bless the miner's home. 



RATTLIN' JOE'S PRAYER. 

Jist pile on some more o' them pine knots, 

An' squat yoursel's down on this skin, 
An', Scotty, let up on yer growlin' — 

The boys are all tired o' yer chin. 
Alleghany, jist pass round the bottle, 

An' give the lads all a square drink, 
An' as soon as yer settled I'll tell ye 

A yarn as '11 please ye, I think. 

'Twas the year eighteen hundred an' sixty, 

A day in the bright month o' June, 
When the Angel o' Death from the Diggin's 

Snatched " Monte Bill "—known as McCune. 
Wal, Bill war a favorite among us, 

In spite o' the trade that he had, 
Which war gamblin' ; but— don't you forget it 

He of en made weary hearts glad ; 



24 THE POET SCOUT. 

An', pards, while he lay in that coffin, 

Which we hewed from the trunk o' a tree, 

His face war as calm as an angel's, 
An' white as an angel's could be. 

An' thar's war the trouble commenced, pards. 

Thar war no gospel-sharps in the camps, 
An' Joe said : " We can't drop him this way. 

Without some directions or stamps." 
Then up spoke old Sandy McGi'egor : 

" Look'ee yar, mates, I'm reg'lar dead stuck, 
I can't hold no hand at religion, 

An' I'm 'feared Bill's gone in out o' luck. 
If I knowed a darn thing about prayin', 

I'd chip in an' say him a mass ; 
But I ain't got no show in the lay-out, 

I can't beat the game, so I pass." 

Rattlin' Joe war the next o' the speakers, 

An' Joe war a friend o' the dead ; 
The salt water stood in his peepers, 

An' these are the words as he said : 
'' Mates, ye know as I ain't any Christian, 

An' I'll gamble the good Lord don't know 
That thar lives sich a rooster as I am ; 

But thar once war a time, long ago, 
When I war a kid ; I remember, 

My old mother sent me to school, 
To the little brown church every Sunday, 

Whar they said I was dumb as a mule. 
An' I reckon I've nearly forgotten 

Purty much all thet ever I knew. 
But still, if ye' 11 drop to my racket, 

I'll show ye jist what I kin do. 

"Now, I'll show you my bible," said Joseph — 
" Jist hand me them cards off that rack ; 

I'll convince ye thet this are a bible," 
An' he went to work shufflin' the pack. 



RATTLIN JOE S PRAYER. 25 

He spread out the cards on the table, 

An' begun kinder pious-like : " Pards, 
If ye'll jist cheese yer racket an' listen, 

I'll show ye the pra'ar-book in cards. 

"The ' ace,' that reminds us of one God, 

The ' deuce, ' of the Father an' Son, 
The ' tray,' of the Father an' Son, Holy Ghost, 

For, ye see, all them three are but one. 
The ' four-spot ' is Matthew, Mark, Luke an' John, 

The 'five-spot,' the virgins who trimmed 
Their lamps while yet it was light of the day, 

And the five foolish virgins who sinned. 
The ' six-spot ' -in six days the Lord made the world, 

The sea and the stars in the heaven ; 
He saw it war good w'at He made, then He said, 

I'll jist go the rest on the ' seven.' 
The ' eight-spot ' is Noah, his wife an' three sons, 

An' Noah's three sons had their wives ; 
God loved the hull mob, so bid 'em emb-ark — 

In the freshet He saved all their lives. 
The nine war the lepers of biblical fame, 

A repulsive an' hideous squad — 
The ' ten ' are the holy commandments, which came 

To us perishin' creatures from God. 
The ' queen' war of Sheba in old Bible times, 

The ' king' represents old King Sol. 
She brought in a hundred young folks, gals an' boys, 

To the King in his government hall. 
They were all dressed alike, an' she axed the old boy 

(She'd put up his wisdom as bosh) 
Which war boys an' which gals. Old Sol. said : ' By Joe, 

How dirty their hands ! Make 'em wash ! ' 
An' then he showed Sheba the boys only washed 

Their hands and a part o' their wrists, 
While the gals jist went up to their elbows in suds. 

Sheba weakened an' shook the king's fists. 
Now, the 'knave,' that's the Devil, an', God, ef ye please. 

Jist keep his hands off'n poor Bill. 



26 THE POET SCOUT. 

An' now, lads, jist drop on yer knees for a while 

Till I draw, and perhaps I kin fill ; 
An' hevin' no Bible, I'll pray on the cards, 

Fur I've showed ye they're all on the squar', 
An' I think God '11 cotton to all that I say, 

If I'm only sincere in the pra'ar. 
Jist give him a corner, good Loed — not on stocks, 

Fur I ain't such a durned fool as that, 
To ax ye fur anything worldly fur Bill, 

Kase ye'd put me up then fur a flat. 
I'm lost on the rules o' yer game, but I'll ax 

Fur a seat fur him back o' the throne, 
And I'll bet my hull stack thet the boy'll behave 

If yer angels jist lets him alone. 
Thar's nuthin' bad bout him unless he gets riled — 

The boys '11 all back me in that — 
But if any one treads on his corns, then you bet 

He'll fight at the drop o' the hat. 
Jist don't let yer angels run over him, Lord, 

Nor shut off all to once on his drink ; 
Break him in kinder gentle an' mild on the start, 

An he'll give ye no trouble, I think. 
An' couldn't ye give him a pack of old cards, 

To amuse himself once in a while ? 
But I warn ye right hyar, not to bet on his game, 

Or he 11 get right away with yer pile. 
An' now, Lord, I hope thet ye've tuck it all in, 

An' listened to all thet I've said. 
I know that my prayin' is jist a bit thin, 

But I've done all I kin for the dead. 
An' I hope I hain't troubled yer Lordship too much — 

So I'll -cheese it by axin' again 
Thet ye won't let the ' knave ' git his grip on poor Bill. 

Thet's all, Lord— yours truly — Amen." 

Thet's " Rattlin' Joe's" prayer, old pardners, 
An' — what ! you all snorin' ? Say, Lew, 

By thunder ! I've talked every rascal to sleep, 
So I guess I hed best turn in too. 



THE TENDERFOOT. 27 



THE TENDERFOOT. 

A SONG. 

Look not with contempt on his dust-covered form, 

Or his coat, tho' 'tis shabby and gray, 
But think of the heart that is swelling beneath, 

And the loved ones he left far away. 
He comes not with wealth, but his muscles are strong 

And his face bears the stamp of a man ; 
Perhaps he has little ones praying at home — 

Then help him whenever you can. 

Chorus. 
Yes, help the poor tenderfoot, give him a show — 

Some day he may be a great man ; 
Perhaps he has little ones praying at home — 

Then help him whenever you can. 

Sometimes a kind word to the poor and oppressed 

Will lighten the burden of care, 
And shed a new light on a heart that is sad, 

And make all his prospects more fair. 
It costs a man nothing to speak a kind word 

To the tenderfoot — strange in our land — 
For oh ! if you knew how it brightens his life, 

You would not refuse him a hand. 

Chorus. 

He is poor in his pocket but rich— in his mind, 

He is filled with ambition and hope. 
Who knows — he may strike it, as others have done, 

And make a big raise on the slope. 
There's Mackey and Fair, there's Flood and O'Brien, 

There's Tabor, and Routt, and McKay ; 
Just think of the power they wield in our land 

They were all tenderfeet in their day. 

Chorus. 



28 THE POET SCOUT. 

LITTLE ONES PRAYING AT HOME. 

A SONG. 

Oa the 15th of September, 1880, I was camped at Lake Goozman, " Laffvna 
de Goozman" in the State of Chihuahua, Old Mexico. I had been sent out by 
General Buell, with two companions, to find the camp of the hostile chief Vic- 
torio, with the view of meeting him, and, if possible, of inducing him to return 
to the Reservation. While reading a letter from my wife, the following hue 
appeared: "Remember, my dear boy, you have little ones praying at home." 
As this was one of the most dangerous as well as the most t'resome trips 
I ever made, these lines were very suggestive, and there, by the beautiful lake 
and by the light of the moun, I wrote ttie following song : 

There are little ones praying for me far away, 

There are little ones praying for me ; 
With tiny hands pressed before each little breast, 

Their sweet faces in dreamland I see. 
Bless papa, dear father, where'er he may go, 

And where duty may call him to roam ; 
Through the hills or the valleys of Old Mexico, 

Watch over and bring him safe home. 

Chorus. 

So to-night I am happy in Old Mexico, 
While I sit in the moonlight alone ; 

For surely 'tis pleasant to feel and to know 
There are little ones praying at home. 

I know not what moment my spirit may fly 

To that land where dear mother has gone ; 
But oh, if I knew on that bosom so true 

I might rest on the morrow at dawn, 
I would willingly go, never more to return, 

Never more through these wild lands to roam ; 
But sweet little voices seem whispering to-night, 

" You have little ones praying at home." 

Chorus. 



BALD MOUNTAIN. 29 

The moon in her splendor is shining to-night, 

By her beams I am writing just now, 
While an angel of love seems to smile from above, 

With the bright star of hope on her brow, 
And whisper in language so sweet to my soul, 

" I am with you wherever you roam ; 
And remember when weary and foot-sore at night, 

You have little ones praying at home.' ' 

Chorus. 



BALD MOUNTAIN. 

(CAIUBOO, B. C.) 

What mighty mountains I behold 

Where' er I turn my eyes, 
Undoubted evidence of gold, 

With snow peaks in the skies ; 
And down below green pasture land, 

Where cooling streamlets flow, 
I never gazed on sight so grand 

As this I see below. 

What mean those giant ledges there 

With mossy-covered brow ? 
And, tell me, are there none that bear 

The gold we're seeking now? 
The little streamlets seem to frown ; 

I almost hear them say, 
" For ages we have washed it down 

Where miners struck the pay." 

And Nature ought to teach us, too, 

If we could read aright, 
That every ounce from Cariboo 

Came down some rugged height ; 



30 THE POET SCOUT. 

And though our sky is looking dark, 
Our quartz is yet untried, 

Remember that Noah built an ark 
To float upon the tide ! 

And surely you, old pioneers 

(Who came in times of old), 
Will only laugh at idle fears, 

And never lose your hold ; 
For one who never turned a drill 

And never fired a shot, 
Can little know what's in the hill 

Except for some vile plot. 

But so it is in every land : 

Wherever gold is found, 
There' re thieving tricksters right on hand 

To run it in the ground ; 
And you who toil from morn till night — 

Will you give up the ship 
When you have got a stake in sight — 

Let go and lose your grip ? 

Thou crystal bed, half decomposed, 

With walls six feet apart, 
We ask no wise philosopher 

To tell us what thou art. 
'Tis but the miner can unfold 

Thy secret, as we know, 
And wrest from thee the precious gold 

Thy bosom holds below. 

Go ask the winds, ye grumbling drones, 

If all you've heard is true — 
If all your quartz is barren stones 

In all your Cariboo ? 
And they will bleakly answer back, 

" Go, learn in Nature's school ; 
Go, take your pick and bend your back. 

But don't consult a fool." 



THE MOUNTAIN BOY'S LETTER. 31 



THE MOUNTAIN BOY'S LETTER. 

Soon after General Grant landed at San Francisco, on his tour around the 
world, Lincoln Post, G. A. R., presented the "Color Guard," a mifttary drama, 
in which Captain Jack Crawford played the leading rule (a Tennessee scout), 
supported by T. W. Keene and the California Theatre Company. During the 
performance Captain Jack recited the " Mountain Boy's Letter" amid great en- 
thusiasm. It was highly appreciated by the General, who, being " corralled," as 
Jack expresses it, by big bugs and Sunday soldiers, could not reach the boys 

" Who followed him into the battle, 
And gallantly guarded the flanks." 

The poem was telegraphed across the continent, and appeared in Grant's 
" Tour of the World," published in Chicago, and, with the exception of Bret 
Harte's " Heathen Chinee," is the only poem ever wired from ocean to ocean. — 

Will L. Fischer, in Denver Tribune. 

Deae Giner'l : 

I arn't no scollar, 
' An' I never done nothin' to brag, 
'Cept this — I war one o' the outfit 

As fought for our Star-Spangled Flag. 
An' to-day while yer toasted by scollars, 

An' big bugs as make a great noise, 
Why, I thought it the squar' thing to write yer, 
An' chip in a word for yer boys. 

Cos, yer see, we ain't got the colat'r'l, 

Nor the larnin' to dish it up right ; 
But ye'll find should thai- be any trouble, 

Our boys are still ready ter fight. 
As for you, if they didn't corral yer, 

You'd shake comrades' hands that yer seed, 
An' that's why I wanted to tell yer, 

We'll jest take the will for the deed. 



But yer back, and the men of all nations 
War proud ter do honor to you, 

An' I reckon, Ulysses, yer told em, 
Ye wor proud o' yer comrades in blue, 



THE POET SCOUT. 

For you, we are sure, of all others, 
Remembered our boys in the ranks, 

Who follor'd ye inter the battle, 
And gallantly guarded the flanks. 

So, welcome, a thousand times welcome, 

Our land is ablaze with delight ; 
Our people give thanks for yer safety, 

Your comrades are happy to-night. 
We know you are wearied and tuckerd, 

But seein' as you're a new-comer, 
You'll Grant us one glance on this line if, 

In reading, it takes yer all summer. 



NOTES IN A CAMP-MEETING. 

(near williamsport, pa.) 

I have heard the different preachers, 

In the camp among the trees, 
And the voices of the angels, 

Seeming wafted with the breeze ; 
And I'm sure the God of Battles 

Smiled on those who came for good — ■ 
But I fear He frowned on many 

Who were wicked, vain, and rude. 

The demon Rum I saw, too, 

As he staggered through the camp, 
And the crowds who drank in darkness, 

For they shunned the lighted lamp. 
There were many Williamsporters — 

And how they cursed and swore ! 
And I noticed quite a number 

From your moral Jersey shore. 



NOTES IN A CAMP-MEETING. 33 

Now, the camp is good for Christians, 

And for those who wish to come 
To the crystal fount of Jesus ; 

And I know that there are some 
Who have sought and found a Saviour, 

Who was heretofore unknown ; 
But I prefer the wilderness, 
■ To pray to Him alone. 

And often in the wildwood, 

And on the far-off plain. 
Where, all alone, so oft I've been, 

And soon will be again — 
'Twas there, when shades of evening 

And twilight round me fell — 
Yes, there alone with angels, 

I thought of heaven and hell ! 

And when in camp, last evening, 

And sitting 'neath the trees, 
I was taking notes of incidents, 

And thought how hard to please, 
If Christ Himself came down to preach 

And cure the sin-diseased, 
There's some who would not hear Him, 

And some would be displeased ! 

But there is one thing certain, 

And I'll tell you on the scpiare — 
I've seen some preachers put on style 

With such a foreign air ; 
And some with stand-up collars 

Would a ragged sinner scorn ! 
They came out from the city 

To blow their gospel horn ! 

They told us, too, what they had done 

In other fields of grace — 
How many sinners they had saved 

From the tormenting-place ; 



34 THE POET SCOUT. 

But there is none that 1 have met 
Who'd risk his scalp with me, 

And go convert the noble Sioux 
For smaller salary ! 

Give me the brave old pioneers — 

The heroes good and bold— 
Who never feared to fight and die 

For Christ and His little fold ! 
The men who left their homes, their all, 

The savage wilds to fight — 
Who felled the forest trees by day 

And preached us Christ by night. 

Such is the man I love to meet, 

Whose face wears Heaven's brand — 
AVith manly courage in his heart 

And rifle in his hand. 
And if some of these dainty preachers 

Cared less for wounds and scars, 
Would go out West and preach Christ there, 

We'd have less Indian wars ! 

But if I've judged them wrongly, 

Oh, pardoned may I be ; 
But they're not just the kind of preachers 

To convert such men as we. 
Of course, we've no book learning, 

But then our hearts are right — 
If we don't know much of preaching, 

We at least know how to fight ! 

So, Bill, old man, and you, Jack, 

Away to the front and flank ; 
You must again face that danger 

From which you never shrank ; 
And if they won't send preachers 

To convert the savage state, 
Of course the knife and bullet 

Must be the red man's fate. 



DREAMING OF MOTHER. 35 



DREAMING OF MOTHER. 



Last night I was dreaming of mother, 

Yes, dreaming of mother and home, 
The little log hut where she blessed me 

When fortune compelled me to roam ; 
How she prayed for her boy at that moment, 

While tears wet the locks on my brow, 
And I said the good-by to my sister, 

Farewell to the farm and the plough ! 

Chorus. 
Dreaming, dreaming, 

Dreaming of home and of mother ; 
Dreaming of home wherever I roam, 

I'm dreaming of home and of mother. 

Last night I was dreaming of mother, 

I dreamed she was free from all care, 
And she kissed me again as in childhood 

At home, in the old arm-chair ; 
And the old-fashioned cap, like a snowflake 

That mixed with the ringlets of gray, 
Seemed richer to me than those treasures 

And millions just over the way. 

Chorus. 

And oft while asleep in the wildwood 

Those scenes of my childhood appear, 
And surely the angels are watching 

While dreaming that mother is near ! 
Oh, happy the thought, dearest mother, 

The hope of our meeting once more, 
When, free from the world and its sorrows, 

We dwell on that ever bright shore ! 

Chorus. 



36 THE POET SCOUT. 

CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER. 

A CAMP-FIEE REMINISCENCE. 

About the middle of April, 1876, I received a note from California Joe, who 
had a tine ranche on Rapid Creek, and was trying to induce new-comers to settle 
there and build a town, to be called Rapid City. The note was written in lead- 
pencil, and ran thus : 

" Rapid, April 10, 1876. 

'• Mr Dear Jack : If you can be spared for a week from Custer, come over and 
bring Jule and Frank Smith with you. The reds have been raising merry old 
h — 1, and, after wounding our herder and a miner named Sherwood, got away 
with eight head of stock, my old Bally with the rest. There are only ten of us 
here, all told, and 1 think if you can come with the two boys, we can lay for 
them at the lower falls, and gobble 'em next time. Answer by bearer if you 
can't come ; and send me fifty rounds of cartridges for the Sharps — big fifty. 
Hoping this will find you with your top-knot still waving, I remain as ever, your 
pard, Joe." 

I immediately saw Major Wynkoop, commanding the Rangers, got his permis- 
sion, and arrived at Rapid Creek on the following night, with four comrades. 
After two days' and nights' watching at the lower falls, Jule Seminole, one of 
my scouts, a Cheyenne, came in at dusk and informed us that there were 
between twenty and thirty Indians encamped at the box elder, about twenty 
miles away, and that they were coming from the direction of the Big 
Cheyenne, and would probably move to Rapid during the night. Jule could 
almost invariably tell just what an Indian was going to do if he could get his 
eyes on him, and he was correct in this instance. About three o'clock next 
morning Joe went up to his cabin and started a big log fire ; also two other fires 
indifferent cabins. These cabins were over a mile from where we were in ambush, 
while our horses were all picketed a quarter of a mile down the creek, which 
was narrow at its point of entrance from the prairie, but widened into a beauti- 
ful river half a mile up. Just as day was breaking, one of the Indians was dis- 
covered by Frank Smith wading up the creek. Frank reported to Joe and I, 
and Joe remarked : " Let him go — he will soon signal the others to follow.'' In 
fifteen minutes more the shrill bark of a coyote proved Joe's judgment to be cor- 
rect. Twenty-three well-armed Indians — Sioux — rode up along the willow bank 
in Indian file. There were seventeen of us, Zeb Swaringen and Xed Baker, two 
old miners, having joined us the night before. We had six men on one side, 
near an opening, which we believed the Indians would break for on receiving our 
fire from the opposite side ; and farther up, when the Indians had got parallel 
with our main body, we took aim as best we could in the gray of the morning. 



CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER. 37 

and fired nearly together; then, before they recovered, gave them another volley, 
and, leaving our cover, followed on foot Ihose who did not stay with us. We 
were disappointed in their taking the opening, but ihe boys were in fair range 
and did good work, killing one, wounding two, and uDhorsing three oihers, who 
took to the woods. We got fifteen ponies, our first fire never touching horsehair, 
but emptying several saddles. Out of the twenty-three Indians, fifteen escaped! 
Joe killed three himself with his big Sharps rifle, the last one being nearly five 
hundred yards away when he fired from a rest off Frank Smith's shoulder. Joe 
had a piece taken out of his left thigh, Franklin was woundtd in ihe left arm, 
and the writer slightly scratched near the guaid of the right arm. Nobody was 
seriously hurt, and we had eight scalps to crown our victory. But 1 did not in- 
lend, when I commenced, to write all these particulars; I merely intended to 
speak of a camp-fire story, as told by Joe at the camp-fire on he night following 
the incident related. The following lines, as nearly as I can recollect, tell the 
story of Joe's courtship and marriage. I must add that Joe was killed at Red 
Cloud, in December the same year, while acting as Black Hills guide. He was a 
brave, generous, unselfish man, and his only fault was liquor. Now for the 
story : 

Well, mates, I don't like stories, 

Nor am I going to act 
A part around this camp-fire 

That ain't a truthful fact. 
So fill your pipes and listen, 

I'll tell you— let me see, 
I think it was in Fifty, 

From that till Sixty-three. 

You've all heard tell of Bridger, 

I used to run with Jim, 
And many a hard day's scouting 

I've done 'longside of him. 
Well, once, near old Fort Reno, 

A trapper used to dwell ; 
We called him old Pap Reynolds— 

The scouts all knew him well. 

One night— the spring of Fifty— 

We camped on Powder River, 
We killed a calf of buffalo, 

And cooked a slice of liver ; 



38 



THE POET SCOUT. 




While eating, quite contented, 
We heard three shots or four ; 

Put out the fire and listened, 
Then heard a dozen more. 



We knew that old man Reynolds 
Had moved his traps up here ; 

So, picking up our rifles 
And fixing on our gear, 



CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER. 39 

We mounted quick as lightnin', 

To save was our desire. 
Too late ; the painted heathens 

Had set the house on fire. 

We tied our horses quickly, 

And waded up the stream ; 
While close beside the water 

I heard a muffled scream. 
And there among the bushes 

A little girl did lie. 
I picked her up and whispered : 

" I'll save you, or I'll die f" 

Lord, what a ritle ! old Bridger, 

He covered my retreat. 
Sometimes the child would whisper, 

In voice so low and sweet : 
" Poor papa, God will take him 

To mamma up above ; 
There's no one left to love me — 

There's no one left to love." 

The little one was thirteen, 

And I was twenty-two. 
Said I : " I'll be your father, 

And love you just as true." 
She nestled to my bosom, 

Her hazel eyes, so bright, 
Looked up and made me happy, 

Though close pursued that night. 

A month had passed, and Maggie 

(We called her Hazel Eye), 
In truth, was going to leave me — 

Was going to say " good-by." 
Her uncle, mad Jack Reynolds — 

Reported long since dead — 
Had come to claim my angel, 

His brother's child, he said. 



40 THE POET SCOUT. 

What could I say ? We parted. 

Mad Jack was growing old ; 
I handed him a bank note 

And all I had in gold 
They rode away at sunrise, 

I went a mile or two, 
And, parting, said : ' ' We'll meet again- 

May God watch oyer you." 



Beside a laughing, dancing brook, 

A little cabin stood, 
As, weary with a long day's scout, 

I spied it in the wood. 
A pretty valley stretched beyond, 

The mountains towered above, 
While near the willow bank I heard 

The cooing of a dove. 



'Twas one grand panorama, 
The brook was plainly seen, 

Like a long thread of silver 
In a cloth of lovely green. 

The laughter of the waters, 
The cooing of the dove, 

Was like some painted picture- 
Some well-told tale of love. 



While drinking in the grandeur, 

And resting in my saddle, 
I heard a gentle ripple 

Like the dipping of a paddle. 
I turned toward the eddy — 

A strange sight met my view : 
A maiden, with her rifle, 

In a little bark canoe. 



CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER. 41 




She stood up in the centre, 

The rifle to her eye ; 
I thought (just for a second) 

My time had corue to die. 
I doffed my hat and told her 

(If it was all the same) 
To drop her little shooter, 

For I was not her game. 



42 THE POET SCOUT. 

She dropped the deadly weapon, 

And leaped from the canoe. 
Said she : " I beg your pardon, 

I thought you were a Sioux ; 
Your long hair and your buckskin 

Looked warrior-like and rough ; 
My bead was spoiled by sunshine, 

Or I'd killed you, sure enough." 

" Perhaps it had been better 

You dropped me then," said I ; 
' ' For surely such an angel 

"Would bear me to the sky." 
She blushed and dropped her eyelids, 

Her cheeks were crimson red ; 
One half-shy glance she gave me, 

And then hung down her head. 

I took her little hand in mine — 

She wondered what I meant, 
And yet she drew it not away, 

But rather seemed content. 
We sat upon the mossy bank — 

Her eyes began to fill — 
The brook was rippling at our feet, 

The dove was cooing still. 

I smoothed her golden tresses, 

Her eyes looked up in mine, 
She seemed in doubt — then whispered : 

" 'Tis such a long, long time 
Strong arms were thrown around me — 

Til save you, or I'll die." 
I clasped her to my bosom — 

My long-lost Hazel Eye. 

The rapture of that moment 
Was almost heaven to me. 

I kissed her 'mid her tear-drops, 
Her innocence and glee. 



CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER. 43 

Her heart near mine was beating, 

While sobbingly she said : 
" My dear, my brave preserver, 

They told me you were dead. 

" But, oh ! those parting words, Joe, 

Have never left my mind. 
You said : ' We'll meet again, Mag," 

Then rode off like the wind. 
And, oh ! how I have prayed, Joe, 

For you, who saved my life, 
That God would send an angel 

To guard you through all strife. 

" And he who claimed me from you, 

My uncle, good and true — 
Now sick in yonder cabin — 

Has talked so muck of you. 
' If Joe were living, darling,' 

He said to me last night, 
' He would care for Maggie 

When God puts out my light.' " 

We found the old man sleeping. 

" Hush ! Maggie, let him rest." 
The sun was slowly sinking 

In the far-off glowing west ; 
And, though we talked in whispers, 

He opened wide his eyes. 
" A dream — a dream !" he murmured, 

" Alas ! a dream of lies !" 

She drifted like a shadow 

To where the old man lay. 
" You had a dx-eam, dear uncle — 

Another dream to-day ?" 
" Oh, yes ; I saw an angel, 

As pure as mountain snow, 
And near her, at my bed-side, 

Stood California Joe." 



44 THE POET SCOUT. 

"I'm sure Tin not an angel, 

Dear uncle, that you know ; 
These arms are brown, my hands, too- 

My face is not like snow. 
Now, listen, while I tell you, 

For I have news to cheer, 
And Hazel Eye is happy, 

For Joe is truly here." 

And when, a few days after, 

The old man said to me : 
" Joe, boy, she ar % a angel, 

An' good as angels be. 
For three long months she's hunted 

An' trapped an' nura'd me, too ; 
God bless ye, boy ! I believe it — 

She's safe along wi' you." 



The sun was slowly sinking 

When Mag (my wife) and I 
Came riding through the valley, 

The tear-drops in her eye. 
" One year ago to-day, Joe — 

I see the mossy grave — 
We laid him 'neath the daisies, 

My uncle, good and brave." 

And, comrades, every spring-time 

Was sure to find me there — 
A something in that valley 

Was always fresh and fair. 
Our loves were newly kindled 

While sitting by the stream, 
Where two hearts were united 

In love's sweet, happy dream. 



YOU ARE WANTED AT HOME. 45 



YOU ARE WANTED AT HOME. 

SONG AND CHORUS. 

Written in San Francisco while awaiting the arrival of General Grant from 
his tour around the world, and afterward sung to the General by the California 
Quartette. 

You are wanted at home, gallant chieftain, 

We are watching and waiting for thee, 
We are waiting to give you a greeting, 

A welcome from over the sea — 
A welcome as soldiers can give it, 
. Who marched with you back to the dome, 
We will show you, our noble commander, 
How much you are wanted at home. 

Chorus. 
You are wanted at home, yes, we want you, 

For you were our bright guiding star, 
You would guide us aright in our duty 

In peace, as you led us in war. 

You are wanted at home — do you wonder 

That comrades all shout with delight ? 
It is love for our gallant commander 

Who led us in many a fight. 
It is you who can best understand us, 

Our chieftain, from over the foam. 
And now you are here, we will tell you 

The why you are wanted at home. 

Chorus. 

You are wanted at home — 'tis the Union, 
The land and the home of the brave, 

The land of our star-spangled banner, 
Where man nevermore can be slave. 

You are wanted by hearts true and loyal, 
Who love you, wherever you roam, 

And you will be happy returning, 

Because there is no place like home. 

Chorus. 



46 THE POET SCOUT. 



TRUTH. 

Truth is like gold in the gulches, 

Oft buried deep under the sod, 
While often the tender-foot * searches 

For gold on the face of the clod. 
The color is found on the surface, 

But if you would find richer stock, 
Go down where large nuggets are buried, 

Go down till you find the bed-rock. 

Many people examine the surface, 

And penetrate never within ; 
But the outside is sleek as a beaver, 

The heart often dyed deep in sin. 
Hence lives are but base contradictions, 

And hearts are oft pining in sorrow ; 
To-day what may seem quite angelic 

As crime may be looked on to morrow. 

Truth, then, is scattered and buried, 

It is mixed with the gold in the glen ; 
Go wash all the dirt from these nuggets, 

And find if you can honest men. 
For truth that is pure and unvarnished 

Is worthy the search of the wise ; 
Compare it with nuggets and diamonds, 

Pure truth is by far the best prize. 

One miner, perhaps, in a million 

Will pick up a fortune to-day, 
While others may toil for a lifetime, 

Yet delve in the very same way. 
And yet 'tis by toiling we find them — 

These nuggets we so much desire ; 
"Tis only by working unceasing 

We manage to climb up still higher. 

* A new-comer. 



THE HAPPY-GO-LUCKY TRAMP. 47 

And yet truth may sparkle like diamonds, 

But some men will cast it aside, 
And, instead, they will treasure the mica, 

And say to the truth, " Let her slide." 
But truth is the old rock of ages 

Upon which our forefathers stood. 
Without it there must be corruption, 

And with it our lives must be good. 



THE HAPPY-GO-LUCKY TRAMP. 

What am I doin' ? Now, what is't yer biz ? 

Can't a feller stand here on the corner an' think ? 
Thunder ! I ain't no slouch, an' as to my phiz, 

It's a little off-color. What's that? Too much drink ? 
Wal, I reckon yer right ; but, look ye, my friend, 

Yer a stranger to me, an' yer one of the few 
As would stop for a second. They don't condescend 

To grant such as me but a short interview. 

Don't talk like that, sir, it ain't jest the thing 
To speak of one's mother, and she so long dead. 

This of'n reminds me — this little gold ring- 
Jest now I was thinkin' it must go for bread. 

An' I've worn it so long— great God ! when I think 

How it served to remind me — "while tossed on life's tide" 

Of that angel who gave it — why, even in drink 
She comes to me, speaks to me, prays by my side. 

No, no, wait a minute, I can't drink just yet, 
Le's talk of that last ride I took on the freight — 

Forget ! Man alive, I don't want to forget, 

But there— never mind — I won't ask you to wait, 



48 THE POET SCOUT. 

For I reckon it ain't interestin' nor new, 

Thar are so many tramps, but my own brother Ned — 

Why, stranger, thar's somethin' the matter with you ! 
Oh, I thought as it mout a-bin somethin' I said. 

What started me drinkin' ? Wal, that's quite a yarn, 

An', besides, I don't want ter have you standin' here — 
Howsomever, I reckon you don't care a darn — 

But them fancy-dressed ladies, jest see how they stare ! 
What's that you say ? Oh, don't make no error, 

Jest show me a cup of hot coffee and strong — 
God bless you ! my heart's fairly jumpin' with terror 

For fear you'll back out as we're joggin' along. 

Good flavor ? You bet it is the way-uppest coffee 

I've struck in a month. But I can't understand 
Why you— oh, all right— so you think that I'm off, eh? 

What ! me, a tramp, live on the fat of the land ! 
Ha ! ha ! Blast your eyes, man, I'd sooner to-morrow 

Be found in that tail-race, all crushed by the wheel, 
Than add one more sin to my cup full of sorrow — 

And so, you would tempt a poor devil to steal ? 

Not a sup ?— not a bite ! Oh, why will temptation 

Keep trailin' me up ! Get out of my sight ! 
Or I swar by my soul there will be a sensation, 

And I will get grub in the cooler to-night ! 
What's that ? You know me of old ? You're another ! 

And, hang you ! if I wasn't weaker' n water, 
I'd— What !— Git out !— You !— You, Ned !— My brother 

1 reckon I'm crazy, and that's what's the matter ! 

Corral me if I didn't think you wor dead, boy. 

Why, darn yer young hide, Ned, but whar hev ye bin ? 
I thought ye were plugged with an ounce of cold lead, boy ; 

Ye must hev slipped out 'fore the redskins got in. 
What's that? In the " Happy-go-Lucky" you struck it ! 

The mischief you did ! Well, somehow I knew, 
The last time I helped ye to pull up that bucket 

Thar war ducats right thar for your brother and you ! 



WILD BILL S GRAVE. 49 



OUR PROSPECT. 



There's a bonny wee spot in the mountains I love, 
Where the pine trees are waving o'erhead far above, 
Where the miners are happy, kind-hearted and tree, 
And many come here from way over the sea. 

There's gold in the mountains, there's gold in each glen, 
The good time is coming, have patience, brave men ; 
Hold on to your ledges, and soon you will see 
Both money and mills coming over the sea. 

I have seen your Bonanza, your great Cariboo ; 
I've been in your tunnels, but everything's new ; 
I've stood at the face of your wondrous Lowhee, 
And find that the prospects are good as can be. 

Don't think that Victoria will give you a hand, 
Nor furnish a baw-bee to prospect your land. 
The miner must prospect and show the gold free, 
Then capital comes from way over the sea. 

Now take my advice, and I'm in with you, too, 
Just stick to your ledges, whatever you do ; 
Don't worry and fret, if at first you don't see 
A fortune in sight, for it's coming to thee. 
Barkerville, B. C. 



WILD BILL'S GRAVE. 

On the side of the hill, between Whitewood and Deadwood, 
At the foot of the pine stump, there lies a lone grave, 

Environed with rocks and with pine trees and redwood, 
Where the wild roses bloom o'er the breast of the brave. 

A mantle of brushwood the green sward incloses, 
The green boughs are waving far up overhead ; 

While under the sod and the flow' rets reposes 
The brave and the dead. 



50 THE POET SCOUT. 

Did I know him in life ? Yes, as brother knows brother ; 

I knew him and loved him — 'twas all I could give, 
My love. But the fact is we loved one another, 

And either would die that the other might live. 
Rough in his ways ? Yes ; but kind and good-hearted ; 

There wasn't a flaw in the heart of Wild Bill, 
And well I remember the day that we started 
That grave on the hill. 

A good scout ? I reckon there wasn't his equal, 

Both Fremont and Custer could vouch for that fact. 

Quick as chain-lightning with rifle or pistol — 

And this is what Custer said — " Bill never backed." 

He called me his " kid " — I was only a boy ; 
And to ungratefulness Bill was a stranger, 

Beady to share every sorrow and joy, 
Brave hunger and danger. 

And now let me show you the good that was in him — 

The letters he wrote to his Agnes — his wife ; 
Why, a look or a smile, one kind word could win him. 

Hear part of this letter— the last of his life : 

" Agnes Darling : If such should be that we never meet again, while firing 
my last shot I will gently breathe the name of my wife — my AgDes — and with a 
kind wish even for my enemies, 1 will make the plunge and try to swim to the 
other shore." 

Oh, Charity ! come fling your mantle about him ; 

Judge him not harshly — he sleeps 'neath the sod. 
Custer— brave Custer !— was lonely without him, 
Even with God. 

Charge, comrades, charge ! see young Custer ahead ! 

His charger leaps forth, almost flying ; 
One volley ! and half of his comrades are dead— 

The other half fighting and dying ! 
Let us hope, while their dust is reposing beneath 

The dirge-singing pines in the mountains, 
That Christ has crowned each with an evergreen wreath, 

And given them to drink from His fountains. 





CUSTER'S LAST CHARGE. 
(Taken from " Tic Tacs," by permission of Homer Lee Bank-Note Co.) 



T)2 THE POET SCOUT. 

" HE DIED FOE ME." 

( As told to me by a veteran scout in the graveyard of a frontier m litary post.) 

I tell ye, pard, in this Western wild 

As a gineral thing the dirt's jist piled 

In a rather periniscuous sort o' way 

On top of a private soldier's clay ; 

An' oue'd think from the marble shaft. 

An' the flowers a-wavin' above the graft, 

That a major-gineral holds that tomb ; 

But the corpse down thar wore a private's plume. 

I remember the day they swore Mead in ; 
He war' pale-complected an' rather thin ; 
He'd bin w'at they call a trampin' beat, 
An' enlisted fur wanto' somethin' to eat. 
It's alius the case (hat a new recruit 
Is the butt o' tricks from the older fruit ; 
An' the way the boys tormented the cuss 
War' real down wicked an' scandalous. 

He tuk it all with a sickly smile, 
An' said if they'd wait till arter awhile, 
When he got fed up in some sort o' trim, 
It moughtn't be healthy to fool with him. 
An' I knowed by the look o' the feller's eye- 
Fur all he war' back'ard an' rather shy — ■ 
That behind his skeleton sort o' breast 
A heart like a lion's found a nest. 

One night as the guard at twelve o'clock 
Kelieved the sentinel over the stock, 
The corporal seed a sort of a glare 
From toward the officers' quarters there. 
The alarm was raised an' the big gun fired, 
An' the soldiers, not more'n half attired, 
Cum rushin' out on the barrack ground, 
With a wild an' excited sort o' bound. 



"HE DIED FOR ME. 

The commander's quarters war' all afire, 
An' the flames a-mountin' higher an' higher, 
An' what with the yells o' men, an' the shrieks 
O' the officers' wives, with whitish cheeks, 
An' the roar o' the flames, an' devilish light 
Illuminatin' the pitch-dark night, 
'Twar' sich a sight as I've of 'en thought 
You could see in hell w'en it's bilin' hot ! 

An' then with a wild, despairin' yell 

The commander shouted, "My God, where' s Nell ?' 

His wife responded, "She's in her bed ! ' 

Then fell to the ground like a person dead. 

Up through the roof the mad flames roared, 

An' theblindin' smoke in a dense mass poured 

Through every crevice an' crack, till a cloud 

Hung above like a death-black funeral shroud. 

(It mightn't be out o' place to state, 

As kinder accountin' fur this Mead's fate, 

That Nell war' an angel, ten year old, 

With a heart as pure as the virgin gold, 

An' she had a kind of an angel trick 

Of readin' an' sich like to the sick ; 

An' many's the dainty her hands 'd bear 

To Mead w'en he lay in the hospital there.) 

My God ! It war' 'nuff to raise the hair 

On the head of a marble statue : there 

Stood a crowd of at least two hundred men, 

None darin' to enter that fiery pen — 

Men that war' brave on an Injun trail, 

"Whose courage war' never known to fail ; 

But to enter that buildin' was certain death, 

So they stood thar' starin', and held their breath. 

Then all at once, with an eager cry 
An' a bulldog look in his flashin' ej'e, 
This Mead rushed up to the wailin' band, 
An' a paper thrust in the colonel's hand ; 



f)4 THE POET SCOUT. 

" My mother's address," he said, an' then 
He sort o' smiled on the crowd o' men, 
An', jist like a flash o' lightnin', shot 
Through the door right inter the seethin' pot. 

With a yell of horror the crowd looked on, 

Fur they thought with him it war' good-by, John ; 

But a half a minute after the dash 

An up-stairs winder burst with a crash, 

An' thar' stood Mead like a smilin' saint, 

The gal in his arms in a deathlike faint, 

An' he yelled fur a rope, an' let 'er down 

To terry finny (w'ich means the groun'). 

Then he tied the rope to the winder sash 
Fur to toiler down, but thar' cum a crash, 
An' the blazin' roof, with a fearful din, 
Throwed the boy to the groun' as it tumbled in ! 
We carried him 'way from the fearful heat, 
A-hopin' the noble heart still beat ; 
But the old post surgeon shook his head, 
An' said with a sigh that Mead war' dead ! 

***** 
'T'wan't very long afore little Nell 
Got over the shock, an' as soon as well 
She circulated among the men, 
With a sheet o' paper, an' ink, an' pen, 
An' axed each one fur to give his mite 
In remembrance o' Mead's brave work that night; 
An' as the result this monument stands, 
'Mid flowers planted by Nell's own hands. 

An' every evenin' she walks up here. 

The boys all think fur to drop a tear; 

An' I've seed her, too, on her knees right there, 

With her face turned up'ards, as if in prayer. 

You'll see, that line at the top's to tell 

As how the stone war' " Erected by Nell." 

An' down at the bottom thar' you'll see 

Some Bible readin' — "He died for me." 



A MOUNTAIN GIRL S LETTER. 



A MOUNTAIN GIRL'S LETTER. 

Dear Tobe, since you left for the mountains 

Old Nick has broke loose on the ranch, 
And that's why I've squatted to write you 

The news of the last avalanche. 
For I'm yours — and I'm yours with a vengeance- 

And I don't give a snap for the gang, 
Since we plighted our love to each other 

In the wild mountain song that we sang. 

So Tobe, dear old boy, don't you worry, 

No matter what this may disclose, 
While I look at the flower you left me, 

And you take a peep at the rose. 
Tho' faded and dead, they remind us 

Of the evening we parted last fall ; 
You whispered, " My wild rose, God bless you !" 

And I— well, I blubbered— that's all. 

And now, while I sit in the arbor, 

The spot where our lips snapped apart — 
I felt just the same as that evening 

When my throat was chock-full of my heart. 
The lump has gone down, but I'd rather 

Be choked half to death with you here 
Than swim in a tank of co-log- ney, 

When you, my own boy, wasn't near. 

Well, you know, Tobe, before we got spooney 

(Of course you remember all that), 
And the rooster who wore the eye-glasses 

And the two-and-a-half-story hat ; 
And you know how I hated the donkey, 

With his fine hair and screwed-up mustache ; 
But, Lord ! how he monkeyed around me, 

While up to my elbows in wash. 



56 THE POET SCOUT. 

And, Tobe, you'd a busted your waist-band 

If you'd seen me a-splashin' the suds, 
While the bubbles just sacheyed around him 

And dropped on his dudey-like duds. 
And dad, he was watehin' my capers, 

And soon as the dandy vamoused 
I felt kinder sheered fur a minnit, 

And wished I could fly to your roost. 

You know the old folks often told me 

My face was a fortune itself ; 
They didn't like you worth a copper, 

And wanted you laid on the shelf. 
They tried to kick up sich a racket, 

And swore they would keep us apart, 
But, golly, in spite of the kickin", 

You just waltzed away with my heart. 

But, pshaw ! you had hardly got started 

When the no-account snob ambled 'round ; 
Oh, jimminy, wasn't he lovin', 

And didn't he look like a hound ! 
As thin as a coyote, and skinny, 

And sportin' a button bokay — 
A regular poor piece of " croppin " 

That old Satan could skeersely assay. 

And then he begun his soft nonsense. 

And said how he come from "the Hub." 
Said I, "If you don't leave the parlor 

My sweetheart will draw to a club." 
Which, he said, kinder mixed him a little, 

And he didn't just quite understand, 
So I showed him a flush, and I whispered 

That you held a pretty good hand. 

But, jokin' aside, boy, he's wealthy, 
Owns stock in the big Torrence mine, 

Drives a fine pair of A 1 Comanches, 
And I reckon he works the best wine. 



A MOUNTAIN GIRL'S LETTER. 57 

But,, you see, he got thick with the old 'uns, 

And wanted to marry me here, 
But you bet that I busted that racket, 

And kicked like a two-year-old steer. 

I jest made him waltz to my music, 

And, make no mistake, it was real ; 
I borrowed that little self-cocker, 

So often discharged by young Teal. 
I knew it would cause a sensation 

In the house of old Buckshot McGee, 
But somebody promised Tobias, 

And, don't you forget it, that's we. 

But now comes the worst of the racket, 

I'm in for a long, weary day, 
I'm locked in the room near the attic. 

And I reckon the devil's to pay ; 
'Cause I whispered to father and mother 

That their dandy I never would wed, 
And that's why I borrowed Teal's whistler, 

To blow off the top of his head. 

That' s why I'm shut up in my chamber, 

But, Tobies dear, that's nothing new, 
For many's the night, my old fellow, 

Have I not been shut up with you. 
That is, in my dreams I have been there, 

So, Tobe, I must go to my bed, 
And I'll never say yes to the dandy, 

Nor go back on a word I have said. 

So be easy, yon dear, good old miner, 

Till I meet you again by the well, 
And I'll marry my Tobe, the old-timer, 

And that's what's the matter with 

Nell. 



58 THE POET SCOUT. 

TO MKS. I. P. JENKS. 
( Written in her scrap-book on her wedding day, April 16, lSSi.) 

The marriage bells have just ceased ringing, 

And you have ceased to be a maid ; 
And little birds are sweetly singing 

For you and Ike a serenade. 
All Nature seems to smile serenely, 

The sunbeams kiss the budding rose, 
While Ike exclaims : "Ye gods, how queenly !" 

As inward love's pure streamlet flows. 

And oh ! I pray that love unceasing, 

Pure and holy, shall prevail, 
Year by year its strength increasing, 

As you journey on life's trail. 
Cloudless skies and sunny weather, 

Poses budding on the way ; 
Hand in hand through life together — 

Heart-strings tuned in love's sweet lay. 

And to Ike, my boy pard, the following impromptu lines are affectionately 

inscribed : 

Memories. 

Partner of my boyhood days, 

When hearts were young and wild, 
Companion of my wicked ways, 
When up the hills and down the braes 
The farmer stood in perfect maze ; 

I'll draw the picture mild ! 

The farmer stood — the dog did not : 

We ran o'er fields and ditches ; 
To-day, methinks, I see the spot, 
And you could point it out, I wot, 
That fence whereon the bulldog got 

The half-sole of your breeches. 



TO MRS. I. P. JENKS. 59 

And as these scenes come back anew 

I see again my father's frown, 
And while the switch was hard on you, 
To me the club was nothing new ; 
For weeks I had to twist and screw — 

It hurt me to sit down. 

But ours was not a safe retreat, 

And soon we left the old home nest, 
And trudged along with weary feet, 
In raiD and storm, in snow and sleet, 
And for a crust of bread to eat 

With saw-buck did we wrest. 

And then it was our mother's voice 

Would wake us from our dreams — 
We chose, '' because we had no choice," 
To make our mothers' heart rejoice — 
And soon their wicked wayward boys 

Pulled back against the stream. 

And so, boy pard, we've stemmed the tide, 

Tho' few the laurels won, 
And you are happy with your bride, 
While mine is smiling by my side. 
God grant no evil may betide 

Till God shall say, "Well done." 

And then, if up the golden tree 

Successfully we climb. 
Our angel mothers we shall see, 
And boys who fought with you and me 
To make God's flag and country free : 
Ah ! that will be sublime. 

Your boy pard, 

" Captain Jack." 



00 THE POET SCOUT. 



SOMEBODY. 

Oh, would I were somebody's darling, 

And somebody cared for me, 
And that I was loved by somebody, 

And somebody sat on my knee. 
And then perhaps that somebody 

Would be somebody very dear, 
And life would be blessed with somebody, 

And somebody make it less drear. 

Alas ! I was loved by somebody, 

And somebody kissed my brow, 
And I smiled when a boy on somebody, 

And somebody smiles on me now. 
That dear, sweet face of somebody, 

Of somebody true and brave. 
The sunburst of hope for somebody 

That laid her away in the grave. 

And the angel face of somebody 

Seems watching over me still. 
And though I weep for somebody, 

As I journey over life's hill, 
I know I am loved by somebody, 

And somebody wishes me joy, 
For I had a love for somebody, 

That somebody had for her boy. 

She is there with the angels, somebody, 

Who watched over me when a child, 
An angel on earth was somebody, 

When I was youthful and wild. 
But God had called for somebody, 

And somebody's work is done, 
And somebody waits with the angels, 

To welcome her wayward son. 



THE BURIAL OF WILD BILL. 



61 




THE BURIAL OF WILD BILL. 

(To Charley Utter— Colorado Charley.) 

Under the sod in the prairie-land 

We have laid him down to rest, 
With many a tear from the sad, rough throng 

And the friends he loved the best ; 
And many a heartfelt sigh was heard 

As over the earth we trod, 
And many an eye was filled with tears 

As we covered him with the sod. 

Under the sod in the prairie-land 

We have laid the good and the true— 

An honest heart and a noble scout 
Has bade us a last adieu. 



62 THE POET SCOUT. 

No more his silvery laugh will ring, 

His spirit has gone to God ; 
Around his faults let Charity cling 

While you cover him with the sod. 

Under the sod in the land of gold 

We have laid the fearless Bill ; 
We called him Wild, yel a Utile child 

Gould bend his iron will. 
With generous heart he freely gave 

To the poorly clad, unshod — 
Think of it, pards— of his noble traits— 

While you cover him with the sod 

Under the sod in Deadwood Gulch 

You have laid his last remains ; 
No more his manly form will hail 

The red man on the plains. 
And, Charley, may Heaven bless you ! 

You gave him a " bully good send ;" 
Bill was a friend to you, pard, 

And you were his last, best friend. 

You buried him 'neath the old pine tree, 

In that little world of ours, 
His trusty rifle by his side — 

His grave all strewn with flowers ; 
His manly form in sweet repose, 

That lovely silken hair — 
I tell you, pard, it was a sight, 

That face so white and fair ! 

And while he sleeps beneath the sod 

His murderer goes free,* 
Keleased by a perjured, gaming set, 

Who'd murder you and me— 

* Tried and released by a lot of peUv gamblers, but afterward arrested at 
Laramie City, and taken to Yankton, Dakota, tried and hung. 



i'm sad to-night. 63 

Whose coward hearts dare never meet 

A. brave man on the square. 
Well, pard, they'll find a warmer clime 

Than they ever found out there. 

Hell is full of just such men ; 

And if Bill is above to-day, 
The Almighty will have enough to do 

To keep him from going away— 
That is, from making a little scout 

To the murderers' home below ; 
And if old Peter will let him out, 
He can clean out the ranch, I know. 



I'M SAD TO-NIGHT. 

Lines suggested by the following remark from a young lady at a Christmas 
party : " Captain, you seem happy always." 

I'm sad to-night, and yet my face 

Is only marked with cunniDg smiles, 
For looking in the glass I trace 
In every feature false beguiles. 

I'm sad to-night, and yet they say, 
Because I dance and laugh and sing, 

That I am always, oh ! so gay, 

And laugh with such a merry ring. 

But I would scorn to show my grief, 

I use my muscle and my brain ; 
For work will always bring relief, 

And sunshine comes just after rain. 

And though the game is hard to find, 

I have no time to weep or wail ; 
Let those who will remain behind, 

I'll still pursue the same old trail. 



64 THE POET SCOUT. 

I'm sad to-night, and yet just now 
A hundred merry voices rang ; 

There's perspiration on each brow, 
From laughing at the song I sang. 

I'm sad to-night — why do I sing? 

Because God gave me voice and jiower ! 
And oft I've made the woodland ring, 

While all alone with some wild flower. 

And often on the lonely trail 
I've bursted out with something new ; 

I started with a song from Yale, 
I'm singing yet in Cariboo. 

I'm sad to-night, and yet should I 
Let others know one care or sorrow, 

While hojie is whispering by-and-by? 
No ! no ! 'twill be all right to-morrow. 

I'm sad to-night, but sweet ambition 

Tells me that I must hold my own ; 
And while lasts the ammunition 
I will hold the fort alone. 

For other skies have clouded o'er me, 
And other moons have shown less bright, 

But thou, fair star of hope before me, 
Hath always been my beacon light. 

And so I'll tarry with thee longer, 
Ever faithful, firm and true, 

With confidence still growing stronger, 
In thy high hills, fair Cariboo ! 

And I believe with those old-timers 
That there is luck for thee and thine — 

Lucky years for all our miners, 
Forty, Sixty, Seventy-nine. 



nature's treasures. 65 



NATURE'S TREASURES. 

Deep within her breast cloth Nature hide 

Her precious ores— her silver and her gold, 
While rough, uncouth upon the mountainside, 

Is found the tempting float— a tale untold. 
The hardy pioneer with eager eye 

Scans every boulder with a wistful glance, 
And tho' a hundred times he fail, will try 

Another trip — there's still another chance. 

With hopeful heart in Nature's solitude, 

He prospects hill and gulch, and every night 
In his abode uncouth perchance and rude, 

He dreams of home and wife, and prospects bright. 
And time rolls on, his form is bending low, 

The fire has gone from out those bright blue eyes, 
His chestnut hair has turned as white as snow, 

And yet, half blind, he finds a wealthy prize. 

And what is wealth or what is influence 

If life has scarce an hour for happy thought ? 
Would Nature's vaults disclosed half recompense 

The ravages that care and toil have wrought ? 
The miner leaves his happy home and wife 

To share his love with fashion's yellow god, 
And some I've known, and shared their toil and strife, 

In Chloride, now lie sleeping 'neath the sod. 

They came for gold, but those were early days, 

When beasts of prey, in shape of fiends, ran wild ; 
When " noble reds" were sung in minstrel lays, 

And none were noble save the prairie child. 
Oh ! Mother Nature, if thou didst conceive 

And bear such offering as they claim for you, 
Disclose thy treasure-vaults, and while you grieve 

Thy breast will soften with thy tears of dew. 



THE POET SCOUT. 

Oh ! if we only knew, and knowing cared, 

To share those precious gems in Nature's breast, 
The child of want and woe would then be reared 

In love and peace, and none would be distressed. 
But not until her breast is torn apart 

With cruel blows and giant's powerful blast 
Will she disclose the secrets of her breast, 

And then monopoly will hold them fast. 

A curse be on the men who hoard their stores 

While want and woe and heavy hearts repine, 
And begging but a crust at their back doors, 

Hear sounds of revelry and pojjping wine ; 
But ignorance is bliss, and these poor souls, 

Deformities of want and woe and shame, 
In blissfiu ignorance and flowing bowls 

Attempt to drown their sorrows — who's to blame ? 

God knows I speak the truth when I declare 

I would not change my heart for wealth of Gould ; 
For if I tried to climb the golden stair, 

Some honest soul would tell me I was fool'd. 
If God is good, and surely He must be, 

I'll take my chances with the poor and meek ; 
And if our hills will share their wealth with me, 

I'll fight monopoly — and assist the weak. 

And if when all earth's weary work for me 

Is ended, and I lay me down to die, 
A thousand careworn faces I shall see 

Made happy when they come to say good-by, 
And then if up the golden stair I climb, 

When Gabriel toots I'll whisper through his tin 
I scattered gold and sunshine down below, 

St. Peter sure will bid me waltz right in. 



MY MOUNTAIN HOME. 67 



MY MOUNTAIN HOME. 

Far beyond the rolling prairie 

Is a home more dear to me 
Than your grand and stately mansions, 

Or your cottage by the sea ; 
In a little deli that's girdled 

By the mountains, rocks and trees, 
And the notes of Nature's songsters 

Making music in the breeze. 

Why I love my shady woodland, 

Why I love each flowery dell, 
Where, beside my trusty comrades, 

I have fought where many fell ; 
Where so oft alone I've wandered, 

Sat and mused the whole day long, 
To the music of the songsters 

I have sang my humble song. 

It is grand in Natiire's grandeur, 

Thus to live and love as well, 
Where around the blazing camp-fire 

Stories we would hear and tell, 
And, with merry voices ringing, 

Comrades joined me in my rhymes, 
While we sang of by-gone pleasures 

And the days of other times. 

Oh, how happy in the woodland, 

Or beside some mountain brook, 
Where so oft the speckled beauties 

Dangled shining on my hook ; 
Where the deer and elk were grazing, 

Where the buffalo loved to stray, 
Birds on every sheet of water, 

And life seemed a long day's play. 



68 THE POET SCOUT. 

Then at night, when all was quiet, 

How my friends would gather near, 
In the little old log cabin, 

"Where each hardy pioneer 
Used to laugh and shout so hearty 

To the banjo's merry tone — 
Shall we meet no more, dear comrades, 

In that little mountain home ? 



SPKING IN THE BLACK HILLS. 

Beautiful Spring in the highlands of nature, 

Snow on the hill-tops and grass in the vale ; 
Sunshine is beaming on each living creature, 

And not e'en one sorrow our joys to assail. 
The pine trees are bowing and bending before us, 

The miner is building his new cabin home ; 
And the birds seem to carol in musical chorus, 

" Angels watch o'er you where'er you may roam." 

Beautiful Spring, you will loosen the fountains, 

Long sealed by the frost in the valleys and hills ; 
And down from the tops of the mightiest mountains 

Will dance little streamlets and murmuring rills. 
Blessings will follow — we feel it, believe it — 

If men will be faithful and work hand in hand, 
Though many will tempt you, while working, to leave it, 

But don't you be fooled, for there's gold in this land. 

Beautiful Spring, you will bring us sweet flowers ; 

Thousands will gather from far o'er the land, 
And many will find bright homes in these bowers, 

And, seeing the grandeur, themselves grow more grand. 
Farmers will come with their ploughs and their harrows, 

The bright golden grain will be waving ere long ; 
While civilization will bury the arrows, 

And the red man will sing his last sad death-song. 



70 THE POET SCOUT. 



THE WELCOME HOME. 

Home again ! Each stalwart comrade 

Breathes his honest welcome back. 
'' Dog my cats, we's glad to see you, 

Laws-ee. Whar ye bin to, Jack ? 
Why, old pard, we've bin a-thinkin', 

Somehow, ye had lost yer ha'r, 
An' you bet yer life, we missed ye 

At our meetin's over thar." 

Not one buckskin boy among them — 

Not a man in all that throng — 
But was glad to gaze upon me, 

I had been away so long. 
How my heart, with fond emotion, 

Beat that night at Modie's store, 
When the boys, with pure devotion, 

Gathered round their chief once more ! 

There was Bob and Jule and Franklin, 

Bill and California Joe — 
Every man an Indian fighter, 

Knowing all a scout should know. 
But my songs and acts had won them, 

And amid their merry shouts, 
In the Buffalo Gap entrenchments, 

I was hailed their chief of scouts. 

Whether in the year succeeding 

I deserved the name or not, 
By our pioneers and miners 

I shall never be forgot. 
Never did the wily redskin 

Find me napping by the way, 
And I tried to do my duty 

In the camp or in the fray. 

Custer City, D. T. 



hood's children. 71 

hood's children. 

[San Francisco Post.] 

When the ex-Confederate General Hood and his wife died at New Orleans 
from yellow fever, leaving nine children, the members of the Grand Army 
throughout the United States were the first to tender benefits and organize fairs 
for their relief. Lincoln Post, of San Francisco, procured the Baldwin Theatre 
for one night, and the entire company, including James O'Neill, Lewis Morrison, 
C. B. Bishop, and others volunteered, as did also T. W. Keene, then leading man 
at the California Theatre. On the afternoon of the day preceding the entertain- 
ment, Colonels Lvod, C. Mason Kinne, of Lincoln Post, G. A. R., and Fleurnoy, of 
Texas, an ex Confederate, waited upon Captain Jack Crawford, and requested him 
to write a poem appropriate for the occasion; and " Remember, Jack," said 
Colonel Fleurnoy, " that we-uns as did the fightin' have nothin' agin you-uns as fit 
us." " Wal,'' said Jack, in that peculiar vernacular of the West, and South, " I 
reckon, pard, as how I are right smart posted as to that," and with an "Adios, 
comrades — I'll try," went immediately to his room. On the next night, Co). 
Kinne announced that Captain Jack Crawford was to read a poem. T. W. Keene, 
today's greatest young tragedian, held Jack's manuscript, and actually pushed 
him before the curtain. Jack, with voice trembling with fear and emotion, 
stood before the grandest audience that ever satin the Baldwin, while in the 
front orchestra seats sat the Blue and the Gray in uniform, above them 
hanging a silk banner of blue and gray, and intertwined with the Stars and 
Stripes, on which was inscribed: " The Blue and the Gray under one Flag?' 
Jack was dressed in his field buckskin suit; and looking all over the great 
mass of humanity in the galleries and below, his eyes resting on the Blue and the 
Gray, he began : 

"My comrades in Blue, my brothers in Gray, your committee waited upon 
me yesterday and requested me to write something worthy of this occasion. I 
submitthe following impromptu verses in Fraternity, Charity, and Loyalty : 

'' Dear comrades and friends in the golden land, 

You may say I'm rough, you may call me wild, 
But I've got a heart and a willing hand 

To feel and to work for a soldier's child. 
Do you think I ask on which side he fought ? 

If man and soldier, his record was good ; 
For though our Union was dearly bought, 

All hatred is buried with Hooker and Hood. 



72 THE POET SCOUT. 

" And, comrades, I'll tell you right here, to-night, 

The men most bitter against the Gray 
Are those who never were seen in a fight, 

But who always got sick on a fighting day. 
With soldiers, my friends, it is not so : 

They respect each other, the Gray and the Blue ; 
Nor are they ashamed that the world shall know 

How they stood by their colors, brave men and true. 

" Was Jackson ashamed when he knelt to pray 

For the cause which he thought before Heaven was just, 
While marching his half-starved boys in Gray, 

On an ear of corn and asingle crust? 
Was Lee ashamed when he tendered his sword 

To Grant, who refused the warrior's steel ? 
Who said, ' Your horses shall be restored, 

For braver never wore spurs to his heel.' 

" Oh ! generous hearts, in the Golden State 

You are forging the links of a Union chain, 
That cables one end at the Golden Gate, 

That will circle the States to the Gulf-swept main. 
A chain that will bind us, the Blue and the Gray, 

In a union of purpose the gods will approve, 
In love that grows strong in adversity's day, 

And hearts that will stand by the flag that we love. 

"The past— it is dead ! But we cannot forget it, 

And, comrades, we wouldn't forget if we could ; 
As for myself, I shall never regret it, 

This poor little service I render for Hood. 
His loved ones will not be distressed nor discarded, 

And to-night I am proud of a share in the stock, 
And shall feel, as a soldier, I'm fully rewarded 

By one little prayer from his innocent flock. 

" One little prayer from the loved ones we foster, 
His latest bequest to his comrades in peace, 

As the pale hand of death wrote his name on the roster 
And the angel on guard gave his spirit release. 



SOME DAY. 73 

"Oh, comrades, let charity's mantle enfold them, 

Old Abe had no malice, no hate in his soul ; 
On the ramparts above may we hope to behold them, 

While Washington musters each name on the roll." 



SOME DAY. 



Some day — I cannot tell just now, 

But hope and faith are strong, 
And I can see one little ray 

Of sunshine through my song ; 
And clouds that overhung my sky 

And part obscure it still, 
Will leave bright sunshine by and by, 

While climbing up life's hill. 

Some day — my soul inspires the thought 

That makes my path more clear. 
I see one sweet forget-me-not, 

Where all was dark and drear. 
And slowly on Miss Fortune's trail 

With eager feet I'll press, 
My motto — no such word as fail, 

While courting Miss Success. 

Some day, while kneeling at her feet 

Or sporting by her side, 
I'll steal into her heart's retreat 

And claim her for my bride. 
And while I hold her in my arms, 

If you should come my way, 
I'll let you gaze on all her charms 

And win her too — some day. 



74 THE POET SCOUT. 



ONLY A MINER KILLED. 

Although everything that science, skill, and money can devise is done to avert 
accidents, the average of fatal ones in the Comstock is three a week. " Three 
men a week." 

Only a miner killed ; 

Oh ! is that all ? 
One of the timbers caved ; 

Great was the fall, 
Crushing another one 

Shaped like his God. 
Only a miner lad — 
Under the sod. 

Only a miner killed, 

Just one more dead. 
Who will provide for them — 

Who earn their bread ? 
Wife and the little ones, 

Pity them, God, 
Their earthly father 

Is under the sod. 

Only a miner killed, 

Dead on the spot. 
Poor hearts are breaking 

In yon little cot. 
He died at his post, 

A hero as brave 
As any who sleep 

In a marble-top grave. 

Only a miner killed ! 

God, if thou wilt, 
Just introduce him 

To old Vanderbilt, 
Who, with his millions, 

If he is there, 
Can't buy one interest — 

Even one share. 



WE MEET AGAIN. 75 

Only a miner killed ! 

Burj r him quick, 
Just write his name on 

A piece of a stick, 
No matter how humble 

Or plain be the grave, 
Beyond all are equal — 

The master and slave. 



WE MEET AGAIN. 

The followiBg, written by Jim Carlin while editiDg a New Mex'co paper, 
explains itself: 

" Once upon a time, as the story writers say, when the hostile Indians were en- 
deavoring to fill a contract to paint the whole western country a bright red, the 
writer was serving the Government in a meek and unobtrusive manner, his duties 
being to monkey around in advance of the troops and take observations from the 
back of a broncho of humble birth and modest demeanor. He never used a pack 
animal to carry the scalps secured, and never marred the stock of his Sharps 
rifle with something like 75,829 notches, each notch representing an increase in 
the aboriginal cemetery, but worked as faithfully as he could for $8 a day and 
found. While engaged in this innocent pastime he first struck the trail of Jack 
Crawford, who was running an opposition shop in the same line of business, and 
in the same territory, and the friendship there formed and cemented by the dan- 
gers which surrounded the two men has grown brighter and stronger as the years 
rolled by. 

" When a cessation of hostilities rendered that peculiar line of business too 
dull to interest an adventurous nature, Jack took a little whirl at the show bus- 
iness with Bill Cody, and his'pardner' of the trail and the camp-fire went 
back East, intending to join the church, go into the retail family grocery business 
and get rich. Occasional letters passed between the old friends, and they grad- 
ually drifted apart, until they entirely lost track of each other. For over five 
years we heard not a word from Jack, and began to fear he had got religion 
and had had his hair shingled The zigzag cantering along of events brought 
the writer to New Mexico, and a few days since he learned that his old friend of 
the long ago was at Fort Craig. He at once wrote to the old boy, and in re- 



76 THE POET SCOUT. 

sponse, on Tuesday last, received the following, which gave his heart apretty 
severe attack of the mumps. The letter opens just as it is here given and is a 
pretty good indication of the paralyzing astonishment the ' Poet Scout' felt at 
hearing from one whom he thought might be dead and trying to learn to play 
a golden harp in the angelic orchestra above: 



LORD BLESS YOU, OLD PARD, SHAKE ! ! ! 

" ' Let my heart speak out in a simple song, 

To the echo of clays long ago ; 
Let my soul burst forth in a friendship strong, 

That grows stronger as older I grow. 
For many a night when I laid me down, 

With the star-spangled heavens above me, 
I thought of a friend in a far-away town 

Whom I loved, and I knew that he loved me. 

" ' And I dreamed, oh ! how oft, on the lonely trail, 

When nature was hushed all around me, 
That your rifle came down, when the foe would assail, 

And when enemies tried to confound me ; 
And a little bird whispered, when I was awake, 

'' Your pard has been dreaming about you — " 
God bless you, old boy, again let us shake, 

My muse has been lonely without you. 

" ' So to-night I am happy, and that's why I sing — 

Do you catch the old strain of the mountains, 
When my voice, like a bird, made the old woods ring, 

In chorus with streamlets and fountains ? 
When the antelope stood, and the prairie wolf stared, 

And the jack-rabbit failed e'en to start ! 
For they knew by my singing that peace was declared, 

As the songs welled right up from my heart. 

" ' And that's how I am feeling to-night, dear old Jim, 

Though unhappy a short hour ago ; 
But while reading your letter my eyesight was dim, 

Though my eyes have not failed me, I know — 



MY LITTLE NEW LOG CABIN IN THE HILLS. 77 

" ' But a something came up in my throat, dear old boy, 

That I've not felt before for a year ; 
But, Jimmy, I swallowed the big lump of joy, 

And I just washed it down with a tear.' " 



MY LITTLE NEW LOG CABIN IN THE HILLS. 

A PARODY. 

Written at Custer City, in the Black Hills, in the spring of 1876, for Dick 
Brown, the banjo-player, and sung by Dick and I, ihe miners joiniDg in the 
chorus, in the camp and the cabin. 

In my little new log cabin home my heart is light and free, 

While the boys around me gather every day, 
And the sweetest hours I ever knew are those I'm passing now, 

While the banjo makes sweet music to my lay. 

Chorus. 
The scenes are changing every day, the snow is nearly gone, 

And there's music in the laughter of the rills ; 
But the dearest spot of all I know is where I love to dwell, 

In my little new log cabin in the hills. 

While the birds are sweetly singing to the coming of the spring, 
And the flow'rets peep their heads from out the sod, 

We feel as gay and happy as the songsters on the wing 
Who are sending up sweet anthems to their God. 

Chorus. 

Then let us work with heart and hand, and help each other through 

In this pretty little world we call our own, 
Whether building or prospecting— yes, or fighting with the Sioux, 

For 'tis hard sometimes to play your hand alone. 

Chorus. 



78 THE POET SCOUT. 



FAKEWELL, OLD CABIN HOME. 

Ye folks of fashion and renown, 
Who live in city and in town,' 
And who, 'mid luxury and ease, 
Have everything the heart to please, 
And every morning take your ride, 
'Mid worldly pomp and fashion's pride, 
At evening down the promenade 
With lovely girls and hearts all glad, 
And home — ah ! that must be divine- 
A little moss-grown hut is mine. 

Where the streamlet's merry lay 

Makes sweet music with its laughter, 

Dancing, rijipling day by day — 
I shall hear it ever after. 

Where, from Harney's snow-clad crown, 
Many rills come dancing down, 
Where the speckled beauties glide 
Swiftly through the silvery tide, 
You may have your stall-fed steers— 
I have lots of mountain deers. 
You may have your hot-house greens, 
I the good old standard beans — 
Beans and pork. Sometimes he'd kill 
A buffalo bull, would Buffalo Bill ; 
Then with chicken, grouse and quail, 
And splendid soup from buffalo tail. 

Oh, how happy, gay and free 

O'er the mountains wild I roam — 

Bank stocks never trouble me 
In my little mountain home. 

Up the mountain, down the glen — 
Dangerous ? Only now and then, 
If a bear you want to court, 
Take her where the hair is short ; 



FAKEWELL, OLD CABIN HOME. 



79 



If you want a fond embrace, 
Meet old Bruin face to face. 
If she's strong, -with frame well knit, 
You'll find her most affectionate. 




Bears and buffaloes, what care I — 
Catermounts may rave and foam ; 

I must leave you by and by, 
So farewell, old cabin home. 



80 THE POET SCOUT. 

Nature grand and wild and free. 
Full of life and ecstasy ; 
Courting nature, dead in love, 
Coo again, thou gentle dove ; 
Teach me, bird of paradise, 
How to thaw the lover's ice ; 
Make the blood within me boil — 
Man must love, or man must spoil ; 
Tell me, how am I to love, 
And a maiden's fancy move ? 

"Will you miss me when I go — 
When away from you I roam ? 

If your nest should fill with snow 
You can take my cabin home. 

Good-by, scenes of mountain bliss, 
Where the clouds come down to kiss 
Crowning rocks and hiding trees, 
Until lifted with the breeze. 
Farewell, valley of my heart ! 
Time has come when we must part ; 
Farewell, all thy sweet wild flowers ! 
All thy nooks and shady bowers — 
Nevermore my eyes can see 
Valley half so fair as thee. 

Valley, cabin, all farewell ! 

Oh, for one forget-me-not ! 
I would leave it in the dell — 

Plant it near this moss-grown cot. 

Castle Ckeek, Black Hills. 



it's only a DIME. 81 



IT'S ONLY A DIME. 

The following letter, inclosing a silver dime, was received at the Major's 
office: 

New York, July 30. 

"Mr. Mayor: I seeaorphan sojer's boy sends five cents, and calls it his mite ; I 
send ten. My dad was a sojer, and they say he was a good one. He was with 
Grant, aDd I guess he is now. I sell papers and black boots. If Vanderbilt and 
Gould and dem oder big fellows give as much as they could afford, same as 
me and the oder boys, General Grant's monument would be bigger than the 
staty of Liberty. Johnny. 

" Postscript.— Mother says, Don't sine your name, cos dey mention it in Ihe 
papers. Mother is a widder, and I goes to Sunday-school. Call this Johnny's 
mite." 

While reading this, vivid memories came up before me, and I felt as if this 
little tribute would not be out of place : 

You may talk of the love of little Nell, 

Of her wreath and her innocent bliss, 
But oh ! how each comrade's heart will swell 

When he thinks of a love like this ! 

" It is only a dime," said the little waif ; 

But, boys, it was rich and bright. 
There never was locked in a banker's safe 

Such riches as this boy's mite. 

" For dad was a soldier, too," he said, 

"An' a good un, the soldiers say ; 
An* dad was with Grant wherever he led, 

An' dad is with Grant to-day." 

And, boys, who knows, though his dad is dead, 

This peer of your snob galoots 
May be carving his way to the nation's head 

Selling papers and blacking boots. 



82 THE POET SCOUT. 



NEW YEAK'S DAY IN THE BLACK HILLS -1876. 

Beyond the Mississippi, 

And the old Missouri, too, 
On the far and distant prairie, 

With comrades brave and true, 
One year ago I wandered 

In the hills so far away ; 
I was happy in my cabin 

One year ago to-day. 

The morning was a fair one, 

And the skies were bright and clear, 
And the snow like diamonds sparkled, 

While we chased the panting deer ; 
I never will forget it, 

Each miner lad felt gay, 
For we found a splendid prospect 

One year ago to-day. 

A band of hardy miners 

At evening gathered round, 
Some on rustic benches 

And others on the ground ; 
We ate and drank together, 

Our hearts were light and gay, 
For a Concord coach first entered 

Our Hills last New Year's day. 

And as the noble horses 

Came flying up the street, 
"With fifteen hardy miners, 

You bet, it was a treat ; 
And the noble Colonel Patrick, 

'Twas this I heard him say : 
* Come in and take a drink, boys, 

For this is New Year's day." 



THE RUINED VIRGINIA. 83 

But time has worked its wonders, 

And in every gulch and glen, 
Instead of half a hundred, 

Ten thousand hardy men, 
With sluice and pan and rocker, 

Work hard and trust in heaven ; 
And twenty Concord coaches 

Are there in Seventy- seven. 



THE RUINED VIRGINIA. 
(Virginia City, Nevada, almost totally destroyed by fire, October, 1876.) 

Did I hear the news from Virginny, 

The news of that terrible fire ? 
Yes ; but I couldn't believe it 

When it first came over the wire ; 
But when I found it square, pard, 

I weakened, you bet, right here, 
And I didn't care a tinker's 

Who saw me drop a tear. 

Just reason the thing for a minute — 

There's two thousand miners right there, 
It's cold, way up in the mountains, 

And some's got no breeches to wear. 
And that ain't the worst ; for instance, 

There's two of my old pards hurt, 
And a dozen that wore plugs Sunday 

Ain't got the first stitch but their shirt. 

Now, Jack, ain't that rough on Virginny? 

Well, there ain't no saints out there ; 
And I 'spec' it's a second Chicago, 

And this is a kind of a scare. 



84 THE POET SCOUT. 

But dog my cats if I see it 

Exactly in that thar way, 
For most of them hardy miners 

Are honest, by Joe, as the day. 

But maybe it's all for the better — 

That's what the good people say ; 
But I don't want any in mine, pard, 

If the Lord will but keep it away. 
I don't read much in the Scripture, 

But I've heard the good parson talk 
About sinners bein' punished by brimstone 

When against the commandments they balk. 

Now, I don't jist understand it, 

Though I tumble to what they say ; 
Nor I don't see why the Almighty 

Should treat a poor man in that way. 
While the fellers who's got the lucre, 

And the worst to connive and swear, 
Always give us poor devils the euchre — 

The deal ain't exactly square. 

And if, as the parson tells us, 

There's a place after this, called hell, 
With fire and red-hot brimstone — 

With a nasty kind of smell ; 
I'll be dogged if some fine snoozers 

(That I have a reason to know) 
Won't find a scorchin' old corner 

In that furnace way down below. 

Now, there was old Kit McGregor, 

He was rough and ready, but smart ; 
He could whip any man in the diggin's — 

And there wasn't a flaw in his heart. 
But when old Parson Plum, one evening, 

Done dirt— didn't act on the square- 
He sent the daylight clear through him, 

And laid the old sinner out there. 



IRENE IS DEAD. 85 

Now, is Kit goin' to hell for that, Jack? 

Not much ! the Lord bid him shoot, 
And he killed a worm of the devil — 

A hypocrite, rogue, and galoot. 
Besides, the gal was his darter, 

And she panned out a woman most fair, 
And was loved by all in the diggin's — 

But Kit had revenge right there. 



IRENE IS DEAD. 

The following letter, written by the noted writer of frontier tales, Ned Buntline,, 

furnished the theme for the verses bearing the above title, and which are now 

published for the first time : 

" Eagle's Nest, N. Y., Jan. 17, 1881. 

" Mr dear Crawford : Three words speak the agony which volumes could not 
describe, the loss which all the gold in your mines could not replace, the shadow 
which hangs darkest in all my long, eventful life — Irene is dead! 

" My little pet, my darling, our household angel, my only one, has taken wing 
for heaven. Her marble cold form sleeps beneath the snow on yonder hillside, 
but her spirit is in the land of eternal light and song. 

"God help us! My wife's grief is crushiog. I bear as bear I must, but no past 
agony ever reached this. . . . 

" Give my love to your boys. You may see me in the saddle in the spring. My 
beautiful home is a desert to me now. Were it not for my wife, I'd be with you 

inside of two weeks. 

" Yours faithfully, 

"E. Z. C. Judson (Ned Buntline)." 

Is the Field, Ojo Caliente, N. M., Feb. 3, 1881. 
Dear Old Heart : Your sorrowful yet beautifully touching letter, containing 
the sad news of Irene's death, is at hand, and the rough frontiersman, your 
friend, can only drop a silent tear; bat if you could look through the dark 
tangled undergrowth away into the clear sunlight of my sou', at this moment, 
you could witness the beatiog of a heart that is all sympathy for thee and thine 
in thy deep sorrow and bereavement. Irene is dead! Oh, that her gentle spirit 
would act as a medium to-night, that would manifest itself in poetic expression ! 
But my hand trembles at the thought. In the midst of savages, suffering at this 
moment from a wound received but three days ago, and looking each day upon 
the new-made graves of friends and brothers, how can I, amid such scenes, 



86 THE POET SCOUT. 

express in true poetic spirit sentiments worthy as a memoriam to this angel? 
Thy only rose, thy sweet Irene. Those three words contain more than would 
fill volumes — Irene is dead! 

Irene, is dead ! Thine only one, 

Thy little household pet, 
Transplanted from a world of sin, 

A rose in Eden set. 
How sweet the thought ! why, dear old heart, 

That land is far more fair, 
And Heaven decreed that you should part 

To meet again up there. 

Irene is dead! Do angels die ? 

No, no ; but He doth sever 
The hearts He loves — Irene will live, 

Forever and forever. 
Bow not thy aged head in grief, 

For Irene knows no pain, 
And all is love, and joy, and peace, 

Where you shall meet again. 

Irene' s asleep ! Thy little rose 

Has lain her down to rest ; 
Her marble face in sweet repose, 

The snow above her breast ; 
The pure white snow, a fitting shroud 

For thine own sweet Irene, 
Whose life had never known a cloud, 

Thine own heart's fairy queen. 

Thine only one hath taken wing, 

Thy little household dove ! 
Methinks I hear the angels sing 

In chorus, love with love, 
And Irene's voice is in that throng : 

"Sweet ma and papa dear, 
Your darling sings a sweeter song 

While waiting for you here." 
Fraternally yours, J. W. Crawford (Captain Jack). 



AMONG THE PEAKS. 87 



AMONG THE PEAKS. 

Oh, gentle breeze, from sunny South, 
With scent of fragrant flowers, 

Warm again with thy heated breath 
These sovereign hills of ours. 

Burst forth in every mountain glen 
Where streams no longer flow, 

With sunny beams from azure sky, 
To melt the crusted snow. 

And onward from the boisterous sea 
Sweep clouds of tepid rain ; 

Let thunder be thy bugle call 
To free our hills again. 

And when the distant roll is heard, 
'Twill set each heart aglow, 

For many who have waited long 
Will see our streams o'erflow. 

Our hearts will greet the smiling sun, 
And bless the heavenly rain ; 

And hope, now dead, will come to life 
When spring is here again. 

And hardy, honest sons of toil 
Will grasp their tools once more ; 

Hydraulic, drift and sluice again, 
As in the days of yore. 

And when the summer time has come, 
With hearts and mountains free, 

Each day a stronger link will forge 
To bind our harmony. 



Cakeboo, B. C. 



88 THE POET SCOUT. 



FAREWELL TO OUR CHIEF. 

The following lines were written on the field on the same day that Buffalo Bill 
bade farewell to the command, August 24th, 1876, when I was appointed to suc- 
ceed him as chief of scouts. 

Farewell ! the boys will miss you, Bill ; 

In haste let me express 
The deep regret we all must feel 

Since you have left our mess. 
While clown the Yellowstone you glide, 

Old pard, you'll find it true, 
That there are thousands in the field 

Whose hearts beat warm for you. 

And while we wish you every joy, 

Wherever you may roam — 
Success in everything you try, 

And happiness at home ; 
Yet would we wish you ever near 

To join us in the shouts 
Of courage when the foe is near, 

And hail you Chief of Scouts ! 

So, Bill, old boy, we wish you well— 
We cannot wish you more ; 

On sentiment we will not dwell— 
You've been with us before ; 

Your smiling face, your manly form, 
The starlight in your eye, 

In memory always will be dear- 
God bless you, pard— good-by ! 



90 THE POET SCOUT. 

DEATH OF LITTLE KIT. 

{To his Father, Buffalo Bill.) 

The following verses were written at Custer City, D. T. ( on hearing from Mr. 
Cody (Buffalo Bill) of the death of his little boy, Kit Carson Cody. 

My friend, I feel your sorrow 

Just as though it were my own, 
And I think of you each morrow 

As I ponder, when alone, 
On the wonders of our Maker, 

As the world goes round and round ; 
Since Kit is with his namesake 

In the happy hunting-ground. 

But the parson used to tell us 

Of things we little knew, 
And how the Lord would chasten 

The good, the brave and true ; 
That all was for the better, 

Though it used to tax my wit, 
Till I heard he sent an angel 

For your darling little Kit. 

At first I thought, but thinking 

Made me wonder still the more, 
Till at last I saw a vision 

While I slumbered on the floor 
Of my little new log cabin 

In the Hills, not long ago. 
Yes, I saw the old Kit Carson, 

With a beard as white as snow. 

He wore the same old buckskin, 

But white, as if just tanned, 
And beyond him, on the prairie, 

Was a scene so very grand 



DEATH OF LITTLE KIT. 91 

That I would not dare describe it— 

But that voice, that well-known sound — 

The words were, " Pards, I'm happy 
In the happy hunting-ground I" 

I saw an angel hover 

O'er a dark ravine below 
The rippling, dancing water 

That in silvery streams did flow. 
Then downward went the angel ; 

Old Kit just leaped for joy, 
When from below that angel 

Brought Kit, your darling boy. 

The old man raised him fondly, 

And clasped him to his breast, 
While peace and sweet contentment 

Upon him seemed to rest. 
Just then a painted redskin 

Was scowling from a mound, 
When crack went Kit's old rifle, 

And the fiend went under ground. 

And then a milk-white pony 

And a steed as white as snow, 
With wide-expanded nostrils, 

Were roaming to and fro, 
When Kit exclaimed, "Come, darlinga, 

My prairie birds, this way !" 
And soon they both were mounted, 

While the choir began to play. 

I heard the sweetest music 

That mortal ever heard, 
While steed and snow-white pony 

Were flying like a bird. 
I woke, and in my cabin 

Your letter soon was found ; 
And Kit had joined his namesake 

In the happy hunting-ground. 



92 THE POET SCOUT. 

And, pard, when life is ended, 
If acting on the square, 

We, too, will meet old Carson 
And your baby-boy up there. 



UNDER THE SNOW. 

IN MEMORIAM. 

(Lines on the Death of T. E. Pattullo.) 

Under the snow we have laid him down- 
Down in the depths of the grave ! 

The dearest, kindest heart in the camp 
Has passed o'er eternity's wave. 

Gone forever ! alas, can it be, 
Will we never again see his face ? 

Never again clasp his honest hand, 
With its warm and earnest embrace ? 

Under the snow in the golden land, 

So far from the home of his mother, 
No loving sister to close his eyes, 

But the hand of a faithful brother. 
God help that mother and sister, too ! 

The news will be sad we know, 
" Our own dear boy in Cariboo 

Is dead and under the snow !" 

" Dear mother" — and now I speak for Tom- 

" Dear mother, don't grieve for me, 
I've only laid me down to rest 

Beneath the old pine troe. 
So tired, dear mother, I needed rest, 

To sleep, to dream, to die ; 
And God does all things for the best, 

I'll meet you by and by." 



UNDER THE SNOW. 93 

Under the snow ! The setting sun 

Seemed bathed in tears to-day, 
And all are lonely in the camp 

Since Tom has passed away. 
And many wei e the heartfelt sobs, 

And many tears did flow, 
And charity round his faults we flung, 

With a mantle of pure white snow. 

Under the snow he sleeps to-day, 

Mourned by the sad rough throng. 
And just before he passed away 

He spoke of his favorite song, 
"■ Maid of Athens !" beautiful maid ! 

There she stands at the door ! 
Ere we part— another verse, 

'Twill ring on the other shore- 
Under the snow the heart is still 

In death forevermore — 
The heart that never saw distress 

Go hungry from his door. 
And many, many will attest, 

Who left here long ago, 
A truer friend than all the rest 

Now sleeps beneath the snow. 

Under the snow ! A sinner sleeps- 
Real saints are very few— 

But Tom was what we called a man, 
'Mongst men in Cariboo. 

And when our earthly work is done 
And the world is at an end, 

The Lord will not forget the man 
Who's been the poor man's friend. 



94 THE POET SCOUT. 

THE DYING SCOUT. 

(A Song to the Memory of Muggins Taylor, who was Custer's courier.) 

Comrades, raise me, I am dying, 
Hark the story I will tell ; 

Break it gently to my mother, 
You were near me when I fell. 

Tell her how I fought with Caster, 
How I rode to tell the news ; 

Now I'm dying, comrades, dying- 
Tell me, did we whip the Sioux ? 

Chorus. 
Comrades, raise me, I am dying, 

Catch the story I will tell ; 
Break it gently to my mother, 

You were near me when I fell. 

Tell my mother that, when dying, 

Every scene came back anew — 
All those happy days of childhood, 

When life's cares I little knew. 
Tell her that I still remember 

How she wept for very joy 
When she clasped her arms around me, 

Welcomed home her soldier boy. 

Chorus. 

Comrades, tell my mother truly 
How we fought to hold the hill ; 

Tell her how we gained the vict'ry — 
That I die a soldier still. 

Hark ! I hear a voice up yonder, 
All is sunshine, bright and fair ; 

Tell my mother I am dying- 
She will meet her boy up there. 

Chorus. 



MRS. KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD. 



95 




MRS. KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD. 

Mrs. KateB. Sherwood, of Toledo, Ohio, is the wife of GeneralJ. R. Sherwood, 
Colonel of the 111th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, who won the stars of a general 
by gallant conduct at the battle of Franklin. She is a native Buckeye, and since 
her marriage, in the autumn of 1859, then in her eighteenth year, she has de- 
voted much of her time to journalism and literature, has been a contributor to 
many of the leading newspapers and periodicals, editor of the Toledo Journal 
and editor of the Woman's Department of the National Tribune. In the spring of 
1885 she published "Camp Fire and Memorial Poems," a volume of recitations 
for Grand Army camp fires, which has been widely read, and some of the poems 
have been translated into German. As an industrious literary worker she has few 
equals, and has translated largely from German and French into Euglis-b. 

It is, however, in local and State charity work that Mrs. Sherwood's character 
shines with its greatest lustre. In every charitable movtment in her native 
State she has ever been a recognized leader, and was one of the original organiz- 
ers of the Woman's Relief Corps, Auxiliary to the Grand Army of the Republic. 



96 THE POET SCOUT. 

During the years 1884-85 she served as president of that organization with great 
honor and credit, and retired with the blessings of her co-workers and of the 
vast army of veterans all over the land. She is a woman of high and noble im- 
pulses, of pure Christian character, and possesses a heart which ever beats in 
sympathy with want and suffering, and hands ever ready to work for the unfor- 
tunate. 

Just after the retirement of Mrs. Sherwood from the position of President 01 
the Woman's Relief Corps, I had the honor to recite one of my poems in her 
presence, and she took her badge of office from tur own bosom and pinned it 
to mine. This touching circumstance called forth the following: 

PERHAPS. 
(To Our G. A. E. Goddess— Comrade Kate B. Sherwood.) 

Pebhaps, beloved goddess, you never will know it, 

The joy and the pride that inflated my soul 
That night when you pinned your own badge on my bosom — 

That night when my heart wrote its name on your roll. 

Perhaps it was weakness that made my eyes glisten, 

While looking in thine, rather misty, I ween, 
While a warrior's soul and the heart of a woman 

Were drifting in sight of our comrade, Pauline.* 

Perhaps it will be, when the moss has grown over 

A spot that is speckled with daisies just now, 
Where I shall retire from life's nettles and clover, 

That I shall meet you with a crown on your brow. 

Perhaps all the sunshine that dodges our coming 
Along on life's pathway will burst on to us there ; 

Perhaps all the music now deaf to our thrumming 
Will thrill our tired souls in that Eden so fair. 

Perhaps, after all, 'mid the strife and commotion, 

The worry and fretting of life's busy throng, 
The soul will ride over the tempest-tossed ocean, 

And anchor where angels and sunshine belong. 

* Paul Van Dervoort, Past Commander-in-Chief and honorary member of the 
Woman's Relief Corps. 



PERHAPS. 97 

Perhaps you will greet me with love, song and laughter, 
Where all our heart's yearnings will cease to exist ; 

Perhaps in that wonderful, unknown hereafter, 
Our poor, wear}' comrades may once more enlist. 

Perhaps in God's army our missing will gather, 

Unknown will be known when they answer their names ; 

Not one be unseen by the all-seeing Father, 

Though sleeping in woodland, in mountain and plains. 

And oh ! what an army of heroes will muster 

When Gabriel's trumpet shall call to review, 
And near to the throne in a hallowed lustre 

Will stand one grand army — the Gray and the Blue. 

Perhaps the great chieftains will have a reunion, 
And oh ! what a camp fire the angels will see — 

Grant, Jackson and Sherman, and Hancock and Gordon, 
With Buckner and Johnston and Logan and Lee. 

Perhaps each will tell of the heart's honest promptings, 
That bade them take arms on the side they thought right, 

And the great Chief of all will make plain why He willed it 
Why comrades and brothers each other should fight. 

Perhaps He will point to the emblem of freedom, 
As out o'er the dome her broad stripes are unfurled, 

And say to those chieftains, those battle-scarred heroes, 
" Your work made that flag to enlighten the world." 

And you, beloved goddess, will gather with others 
To meet them and greet them. H I can be there, 

I shall ask God to let me be aide to dear mothers 
Who gave their brave sons to our country so fair. 

And, Kate, if the Lord will detail me to find it, 

Your crown will be brighter than any I know ; 
With sunshine in front and with starlight behind it, 

I'm sure it will light up this world here below. 



98 THE POET SCOUT. 

SANDY'S REVENGE. 

A miner's strategy. 

" I say, young feller, have something to take ? 

Yer a stranger to rne, but I like yer style, 
And I reckin I met ye somewhar afore — 

Come, fellers, won't ye all have a smile ? 
Ye see, I've jist come in from the mines, 
Where we fellers strike it rich sometimes." 

" Excuse me, sir, but I never drink, 
And I'm just as much obliged to you. 

I can't help it, sir, you may believe or not, 
But nevertheless I am telling you true. 

And, by the way, a word in your ear — 

You'll be drugged and robbed if you drink in here. 

He looked at me with his great blue eyes, 

And laughingly said : " That's a very good joke. 

I own a half," said he, " in the prize," 

And looking around on the crowd as he spoke, 

"I've got enough in my buckskin, I think, 

To treat the house. Come, every one, drink. 

" And see here, youngster, you take a cigar. 

The other bottle — I mean the brandy. 
Wall, here's how — what might be my name? 

Wall, it might be Jim, but they call me Sandy. 
And I don't know much 'bout books and sich, 
But what's the odds when a feller's rich ? 

" Do I want a bed ? Wall, I reckin I do, 
And I want a good'n, ye bet yer life. 

Come, set 'em up agin for the crew ; 
What' s that ye say — hev I got a wife ? 



SANDY'S REVENGE. 

Wall now yer shouten-why, bless yer soul, 
My Jennie's the trimmest gal of the whole. 

« ' Me gettin* full ? Is that what ye said ? 

Wall, I reckin I am. I'll go pretty soon ; 
An, landlord, when I get up to bed, 

Send me a night-cap up ter my room. 
An' don't you forget it— I want it strong, 
So I kin sleep on it, soundly an' long." 

" Good-night !" he said, as he passed me by, 
And I saw a smile on bis sunburnt face ; 

And then he winked with his flashing eye, 
And whispered : " If ye kin find the place, 

Jist come to my room between twelve and one, 

And I reckin as how we kin have some fun. 

It was nearly twelve when he said good-night, 

So I quietly left, as if to go home, 
And turning quickly round to the right, 

At a corner window I saw him alone, 
With a navy revolver in either hand, 
He fixed them, and laid them down on the stand. 

I climbed the porch ; it was rather dark, 
But somehow I managed to reach the top. 

I tapped at the window and made a noise, 
When he motioned that I should stop. 

Too late-the lamp was turned out quite, 

And he whispered : " I'll play her alone to-night. 

Five minutes ! and each to me seemed an hour, 
But at last the painful silence was broke ; 

A heavy thud— then a leaden shower— 
And the little room full of fire and smoke. 

A light was struck, and there on the floor 

Lay landlord and son by the open door. 



99 



100 THE POET SCOUT. 



CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE BLACK HILLS -1876. 

Last Christmas day, I remember it well — 

And I reckon I'll still remember — 
When emigration began to swell, 

Though our chances war mighty slender, 
A band of as bully men, by Jove, 

As ever struck out a-trailin', 
Struck for the Hills ter hunt for gold, 

With bull teams just a-sailin'. 

And I war guide of the outfit, pards ; 

Ye see, I'd been thar before, 
When we struck it rich on Calamity Bar, 

So I struck for the Bar once more. 
But I'll never forget when crossin' the Platte, 

And the ice in the middle gave way, 
And down went our wagons, bulls and all— 

Pards, that war last Christmas day. 

Ye see, it war only a mile across — 

Wall, that ain't much out thar — 
But the boys kinder left it ter me, bein' boss, 

As ter whether the ice would bear ; 
So I reckoned as how I thought it would, 

And we started — gee whoa — right away ; 
But she cracked like an old cook's kettle, she did— 

Pards, that war last Christmas day. 

Who cuss'd ? Oh, no, pards, I never swar, 

But just about that ar' time 
There wasn't much poetry in my head — 

I couldn't a-spun a rhyme — 
Ye see, the quicksands war orful bad, 

And none of us felt very gay ; 
'Cause we had ter wade and carry our grub — 

Pards, that war last Christmas day. 



THE OLD TRAPPER'S RELIGION. 101 

And now while I'm ridin' on cushion seats, 

"With nothin' to worry or fret, 
By thunder ! I almost wish I war back 

A-courtin' my bride, my pet ; 
I mean my " Winchester," bully old gal — 

And the reds will keep out of her way ; 
She dropped a buck weighin' three hundred pounds — 

Pards, that war last Christinas day. 



THE OLD TRAPPER'S RELIGION. 

I ain't goin' ter preach ye a sermon, 

Nor I ain't goin' ter sing ye a song, 
An' I reckin as how ye won't think so, 

If I don't draw my story too long ; 
But I am jist from the church in the city, 

Whar I hear'n the good parson man tell 
'Bout the psalm-singers' home up in heaven, 

An' the sinners' hot layout in hell. 

I didn't at first understan' him ; 

Ye see, I sot back nigh the door, 
With my leg threw way inter a tunnel, 

An' my slouch layin' flat on the floor ; 
But, somehow, his words set me thinkin', 

An' it worried me ever so long, 
Till I dropped on the settled conclusion 

Thet he drawed it a little too strong. 

Sez he, ye must all get religion, 

An' stay with the rules o' the church, 

Else, or, on the great day o' judgment 
Ye'll surely git left in the lurch. 



102 THE POET SCOUT. 

Sez he, nows the day o' salvation, 

For why do ye weaken and wait ? 
Fly from that trail strew'd with pleasure, 

'Cos it leads right direct to hell's gate. 

Then 1 ax'd myself, what is this racket 

That he seems so dead earnest about ? 
Is it sittin' close up near the pulpit 

To jine in the general shout ? 
Is it wearin' a face like a bean-pole, 

Chippin' in with a lusty amen, 
An' loafin' around in the temple 

While the beggar lies sick in a pen ? 

Ar' these psalm-singin' nabobs religious, 

'Cause they pray in a satindined box, 
An' all the time durin' the preachin' 

Keep plannin' their next steal in stocks? 
Do ye think as they'll waltz inter glory 

Because they're mixed with the flock? 
Not much ! They'll git left on the margin, 

For Christ will go down to bed rock. 

In course, they're looked on as Christians, 

Tho' they gamble all week on the Board, 
They freely come down with the wherewith 

To help on the cause of the Lord. 
But I think at the last resurrection 

They'll have nothin' but wildcat to sell ; 
And instead of the Stock Board in heaven 

They'll get points on a corner in H — 11. 

Ar' the poor folks all bound to perdition 

That labor and toil day by day 
For yer gilt-edged Sunday professors — 

Like Duncan*— on starvation pay ? 

* J. C. Duncan, manager of the Pioneer Bank, San Francisco, who was a pil- 
lar of the church, and stole $2,000,000 from the depositors, and who denounced 
the honest prayer of " Itattlin' Joe" as sacrilegious. 



THE OLD TRAPPER'S RELIGION. 103 

Ar' they bound to take lodgin's with Satan, 

While Duncan, the deacon, steals all ? 
An' pays with the sweat of the poor man 

The price for a sanctified stall? 

Ar' they to be damn'd inter torment, 

An' driv through unquenchable flames, 
'Cause the big book in front o' the pulpit 

Don't happen ter show up thar names ? 
Is the devil a-goin' for to yank 'em 

To his kingdom of fire down below, 
Jist 'cause they don't jine in yer meetin's, 

And work in the very same row ? 

In short, can't a man as lives honest, 

An' don't take the devil inside 
(For no man kin be a good Christian 

An' yet from his sideboard imbibe). 
If he does every day to his neighbor 

As he'd have thet same neighbor to do, 
Won't he fare jist as well at the clean-up 

As if worth a million or two V 

The churches are good institutions ; 

I like to hear good preachers tell 
'Bout Christ and the good o' religion, 

But they ought ter preach tempWance as well: 
'Cause rum's the stronghold o' the devil, 

An' a man as drinks don't always win, 
'Cause he never kin keep himself level, 

Since rum is a cuss and a sin. 

But I tell ye, a man as lives honest, 

If he never hears tell o' the church, 
Kin jist be as happy hereafter, 

And roost on the heavenly perch ; 
We're all in the way o' temptation, 

Thar's no one who's free from all sin ; 
But Christ won't go back on us- poor folks 

If we do jist the best that we kin. 



104 THE POET SCOUT. 



THE SCOUT'S REQUEST BEFORE THE BATTLE. 

'Twas a moonlit night, just a year ago, 
As we sat and lay by the old camp fire. 

■* Come fill up yer pipes," said Muggins the scout, 
"And draw yoursel's up just a little nigher, 

"An' I'll tell ye a story (the gospel truth), 

An' I reckon I couldn't lie to-night ; 
For somehow I feel as if this poor chap 

Wer' goin' ter git left in to-morror's fight. 

"An', pards, if I do — I see ye smile, 

But I ar' in earnest, you bet yer life, 
Nor I arn't afeard to pass in my checks ; 

But, pards, I'm a-thinkin' of home and wife. 

" I left the old cabin — now two weeks ago ; 

My poor wife's face wor a picter of sorror. 
'Muggins,' said she, ' if ye get killed, 

Then God ' — but, no matter, I go to-morror. 

"Ye know me, boys ; now look ye here, 
Don't tell me I mustn't go in with you ! 

I never did weaken in all my life, 

An' to morror I'll lead them boys in blue. 

" An' if, when the evenin' sun goes down, 
This time to-morror ye find I'm dead, 

I want ye to tell me now, right here, 
Ye won't see my little ones want for bread. 

" No ! thank the Lord ! but how about Jim ? 

Now, there ar' a boy as is like his dad, 
An' 'Bat,' if ye say that you'll tend ter him, 

Why dyin' to-morror won't be so bad.' ' 
****** 

Next eve, as the sun was going down, 

And firing had ceased along the line, 
Old Muggins was humming that little song 

Of " Home, Sweet Home," in the bright sunshine, 



THE SCOUT'S BEQUEST BEFORE THE BATTLE. 105 




When zip came a bullet, and Muggins fell. 

"Battees," he said, "Bat, don't forget 
My wife — niy Annie — my blue-eyed Mag, 

An' Jimmie— our Jimmie— his father's pet. 

We covered him up with the mossy sod ; 

Benewed our promise above his grave ; 
Left him alone — alone with his God — 

Muggins the scout, and Muggins the brave. 



106 THE POET SCOUT. 



THE DEATH OF CUSTER. 

In July, 1876, I received a telegram from W. F. Cody (Buffalo Bill), which 
read : " Have, you heard of the death of our brave Custer V" I immediiiielv 
wrote the following verses, which I sent Mr. Cody, in answer to his dispatch 
on the following day : 

Did I hear the news from Custer? 

Well, I reckon I did, old pard ; 
It came like a streak of lightin', 

And, you bet, it hit me hard. 
I ain't no hand to blubber, 

And the briny ain' t run for years ; 
But chalk me down for a lubber, 

If I didn't shed regular tears. 

What for ? Now look ye here, Bill, 

You're a bully boy, that's true ; 
As good as e'er wore buckskin, 

Or fought with the boys in blue ; 
But I'll bet my bottom dollar 

Ye had no trouble to muster 
A tear, or perhaps a hundred, 

When ye heard of the death of Custer. 

He always thought well of you, pard, 

And had it been Heaven's will, 
In a few more days you'd met him, 

And he'd welcomed his old scout, Bill. 
For. if ye remember, at Hat Creek 

I met ye with General Carr ; 
We talked of the brave young Custer, 

And recounted his deeds of war. 

But little we knew even then, pard 

(And that's just two weeks ago, 
How little we dreamed of disaster, 

Or that he had met the foe) — 



THE DEATH OF CUSTER. 107 

That the fearless, reckless hero, 

So loved by the whole frontier, 
Had died on the field of battle 

In this our centennial year. 

I served with him in the army, 

In the darkest days of the war ; 
And I reckon ye know his record, 

For he was our guiding star. 
And the boys who gathered round him 

To charge in the early morn, 
War just like the brave who perished 

With him on the Little Horn. 

And where is the satisfaction, 

And how are we going to get square ? 
By giving the Reds more rifles ? 

Invite them to take more hair? 
We want no scouts, no trappers, 

Nor men who know the frontier ? 
Phil, old boy, you're mistaken — 

You must have the volunteer: 

They talk about peace with these demons 

By feeding and clothing them well ; 
I'd as soon think an angel from heaven 

Would reign with contentment in hell ; 
And some day these Quakers will answer 

Before the great Judge of us all, 
For the death of our daring young Custer, 

And the boys who around him did fall. 

Perhaps I am judging them harshly, 

But I mean what I'm telling ye, pard ; 
I'm letting them down mighty easy — 

Perhaps they may think it is hard. 
But I tell ye the day is approaching — 

The boys are beginning to muster, 
That day of the great retribution — 

The day of revenge for our Custer. 



108 THE POET SCOUT. 

And I will be with you, friend Cody, 

My mite will go in with the boys ; 
I shared all their hardships last winter, 

I shared all their sorrows and joys ; 
So tell them I'm coming, friend William, 

I trust I will meet you ere long ; 
Regards to the boys in the mountains, 

Yours truly, in friendship still strong. 



COMRADE, WHY THIS LOOK OF SADNESS? 

Written some years ago to the la'e Charley Reynolds, Custer's bravest and 
best scout, who perished by his side on the Little Big Horn. 

Comrade, why this look of sadness? 

What has caused this sudden change ? 
Why thus wander in the moonlight, 

Acting so uncommon strange ? 
Know that I would share thy sorrow, 

Even shed a tear with thee ; 
Sick or wounded would I leave you ? 

No ! nor would you part from me. 

Tell me, then ; I too, have sorrow, 

But I drive it from my mind ; 
'Tis but foil}' thus to borrow 

Trouble from the midnight wind. 
Come, there's music at the barracks, 

We're having quite a hop to-night — 
Have a dance with little Jessie, 

And I'm sure you'll feel all right. 

No? Ah, comrade, I can see it, 

Even though you will not tell ; 
You have loved with all your nature — 

Loved not wisely, but too well. 



COMRADE, WHY THIS LOOK OF SADNESS? 109 

This it is that makes you gloomy — 

Cuts you to the very core ; 
But you must remember, Charley. 

There are very many more. 

So, at last, I've got your secret — • 

Only one ? Indeed ! not more ? 
Me ? Why, man, that ain't a marker — 

I can count them by the score. 
Women— why, of course, they're fickle, 

But the men are tickle, too, 
And I'm sure the greater number 

Of the fairer sex are true. 

Yes, I had one little sweetheart ; 

Do you see that blackened spot ? 
There it was that I first met her 

In her father's little cot ; 
And beside this mossy willow, 

When the skylark's music fell, 
Gertie told me how she loved me, 

'Mid the fragrance of the dell. 

While my arms were fondly twining 

Bound her little form so fair, 
Bright blue eyes like diamonds shining, 

And the moonbeams kissed her hair — 
Then it was a silent arrow 

Pierced my little girl and I — 
Pierced her through the heart, God help me— 

Me to live and she to die. 

Here, beside this dear old willow, 

Where the flowers are growing wild, 
Bests old Bruce, the guide and trapper, 

With my love, his only child. 
Best in peace, my little darling, 

There is joy in Heaven for you ; 
As for me— no peace, no resting 

While there lives a single Sioux. 



110 THE POET SCOUT. 

Now, my boy, you know the reason 

Why I seek this spot alone ; 
When the moon is up and shining, 

I can watch beside my own. 
Go, enjoy yourself — I cannot, 

While my angel sleeps close bj\ 
Hark ! get down — I see a scalp. lock ! 

Not a word — he, too, must die. 

Death was silent in his mission — 

Not the faintest sound was heard ; 
While the scout, with cat-like motion, 

Moved as if he were a bird ; 
Then the flash of steel by moonligbt — 

Not a word had yet been said ; 
But the brave young lover conquered— 

Scored another for the dead. 



BY THE LAKE. 

My heart is just dancing with rapture 

To the music that springs from the soul, 
As I revel in Nature's seclusion, 

Where God left His name on her scroll. 
And the birds seem to ask for a token — 

For a something that they may retain — 
A song that the soul may have spoken, 

By the streamlet that flows to the plain. 

And here far away in the wildwood, 

With Nature, unsullied by art, 
Those thoughts that were dear to my childhood 

Still twine themselves close round ni}' heart. 
Sing on, sweetest songsters, thy singing 

Bright memory's slumbers awake ; 
Thy voices in sweet chorus ringing — 

So I leave you in peace by the lake. 



112 THE POET SCOUT. 



GOD BLESS YE, GENER'L CUSTER." 

" By gosh, I ar' as hungry 

As a prairie wolf, you bet, 
An', pards, I won't forget ye, 

An' am moughty glad we met. 
Yer see, I've been ter prospec', 

An' I lost my latitud'. 
Laws' ee, but I war hungry, 

Them beans war moughty good. 

" I've see'd thet face afore, pards — 

Can't say as how I know, 
My eyes ain't wot they us' ter war 

'Bout fifteen year ago. 
But, dog my cats, I'll swar it, 

Let's take a closer sight — 
Blest if it arn't the Gener'l ! 

I knew I must be right." 

And then a pearly tear drop 

Stood in the old man's eye. 
" Yer know I've pray'd ter see him 

Jist once afore I'd die ; 
He saved my wife and baby 

When the reds began to muster." 
With outstretched hand he, sobbing, said 

" God bless ye, Gener'l Custer !" 

" I reckin ye don't remember 

Old Bill as run the mail 
From Sidney up to Red Cloud, 

When ye war on the trail; 
An' how thet frosty mornin' 

Yer saved my Tommy's life, 
An' took a heap o' chances — 

She told me — Jane, my wife. 



JNTEVER GIVE UP THE SHIP." 

" I warn't thar to thank yer 

When I heerd the story through, 
'Cause that war all I had ter give, 

An' all as I could do ; 
An', Gener'l, if yer wants me, 

'Tain't much as I kin do, 
But, dog my cats, I'm ready 

To trump death's ace for you." 



/ 

/ 



"NEVER GIVE UP THE SHIP!" 

In the spring of 1875, in Custer City, at the time I wrote the following verses, 
I was, to say the least, sick and tired of the mountains. I had just nursed to 

life old Charley S , from Chicago, an old Forty-niner (who was always kind 

to me), while a man named Hughes lay on one of my bunks, his arm shattered 
bv a bullet from the wrist to the muscle, and Jule Seminole, one of my scouts, a 
faiihful Cheyenne warrior, lay on the oiher buuk, with pneumonia. I had hard 
work to watch Jule. If I ever left the cabin during the day, and the sun was 
shining, he would be sure to jump out of bed, run around the cabin with only a 
single blanket thrown around him, and squat right down on a log or stone, his 
moccasined feetin the melting snow ; and when I tried to reason wbh him, and 
scold him for exposing himself, he would look at me with his great brown eyes, 
shake his head and say : " You heap good to me ; me know you like 1 get well. 
But me no like white man's medicine. Too much bad taste. Sun heap better 
b'g medicine.'' He always returned to his bunk, however, and finally got well 
again, and proved his devotion to me afterward on many occasions, never los- 
ing sight of me while on the trail. Hughes had a little boy nine years old, who 
relieved me occasionally, and watched while I slept. I never took my clothes off, 
night or day, except to change my underwear, for I only had a buffalo robe and 
one blanket, which I spread on the damp sawdust, floor; and only for a strong 
constitution and temperate habits, I, too, would have been laid up. One even- 
ing, a merchant, who had just come in the Hills, called to see me, and when I 
told him how I was situated, how I h>id to hunt for my meat, and how discour- 
aged I was beginning to feel, he remarked : "Never get down-hearted, Jack — 
never give up the ship ! n And, although he was wel[ off in this world's goods, he 
never offered me a pound of tea or a piece of bacon. After he left my cabin, 
while my single tallow candle cast a sickly light upon the smoked logs, I wrote, 
" Never Give up the Ship !" 



114 THE POET SCOUT. 

' ' Never give up the ship, old boy !" 

Said a friend to me to-night ; 
" But jog along with a manly step, 

And with spirits always light ; 
Laugh with a hearty will, old boy, 

And wait for the turn of the tide, 
For this is a beautiful world of ours — 

So, Jack, let your troubles slide." 

How easy it is for Mm to say 

" Never give up the ship !" 
While thinking of a gas-lit home, 

And I with a tallow dip, 
Ensconsed in my little log caboose, 

The wolf and the snow at the door ; 
I wish I could give up the craft, 

I'd sail in her no more. 

" Never give up the ship !" he said, 

This friend ! I could almost curse ; 
With love and friends and a happy home— 

Ah ! yes, and a bottomless purse. 
How easy it is for one to say, 

" There's better luck in store," 
When hunger and sickness pass him by 

And knock at another's door. 

When home for him is a safe retreat, 

And nothing to worry or fret, 
While I in the snow must hunt my meat— 

Or what ? Why, starve, you bet. 
Two comrades wounded, sick and sore, 

Are stretched on the bunks beside, 
While I shake down on the sawdust floor 

And wake with a sore-marked hide. 

Old Charley too has just got well ! 

He told me I saved his life, 
And how I loved to hear him tell 

Of his home and his dear good wife, 



MUSING. 115 



And how, if ever I went back East, 

His folks I must call and see. 
Then, old boy, we will have a feast, 

And drink your good health in tea. 

Well, I don't intend to give up the ship, 

But I wish I could find a canoe, 
And we were two hundred miles from here, 

On the banks of the old Mossu — 
I reckon we'd float, would Jule and I, 

Though we worked our venison raw, 
And never let up till we gazed once more 

On the spires of Omaha. 



MUSING. 

(To the Man of Intellect.) 

These verses were written in answer to an anonymous letter written by some 
one in Victoria, B. C. (who was English, you know), telling me to desist from 
imposing my doggerel on an intelligent newspaper public. 

While with various thoughts and feelings 

I am musing here to-night — 
Thoughts of other years of sorrow, 

Feelings of a heart more light — 
Musing still, and still I wonder 

What my future lot will be, 
While my soul is craving knowledge, 

Will not fortune smile on me ? 

Is there no poetic beauty 

In those simple songs of mine ? 
Must a man be bred in college 

Ere he dares to form a rhyme? 
Though his soul dictates the music, 

Yet his words, uncouth and plain, 



116 THE POET SCOUT. 

Must not find a friendly welcome 
From the learned man of brain. 

While my beating heart oft whispers 

Sweetest music to my soul, 
And I feel that heaven-born passion 

Which I care not to control, 
That which 'neath the spreading branches 

Often caused my mates to start, 
Aye ! and list with awe and wonder 

To the songs which left my heart. 

Far away in wild Dakota, 

Hours I've stood upon the green, 
Spouting what I thought poetic, 

Only by my comrades seen, 
Revelling in nature's grandeur. 

Ah ! but those were happy days, 
For I thought I was a poet, 

And deserving of some praise. 

Yet, alas ! here comes a letter 
Telling me 1 must desist, 

Written by — perhaps George Francis- 
Such a s- Train was to his fist. 

Stop it, Jack— let reason guide you. 
Good advice you dare reject, 

And you'll get another letter 
From a man of intellect. 

Every man is not a classic, 

Nearly all who labor read — 
These at least peruse my verses, 

Sometimes even with a greed. 
Let me, then, a little longer 

Pass like this my idle hours ; 
Time will surely make me stronger — 

Spring must come to bring the flowers. 

In the Mountains, Cariboo, B. C. 



AN EPITAPH ON WILD BILL. 



117 




AN EPITAPH ON WILD BILL. 

The following epitaph on J. B. Hickock(Wild Bill) was written while sitting 
on his grave, near Deadwood, on the 10th of September, 1876. 

Sleep on, brave heart, in peaceful slumber, 

Bravest scout in all the West ; 
Lightning eyes and voice of thunder. 
Closed and hushed in quiet rest. 
Peace and rest at last is given ; 
May we meet again in heaven. 
Rest in peace. 



118 THE POET SCOUT 



GRIZZLY JAKE. 

We sat by the smoking camp-fire, 

On the eve of a summer's day ; 
There was Grizzly Jake, and Yankee Jim, 

And whole-soul'd Jfete McKay ; 
There was little Bessie and Annie Roe, 

And Flora, the pet of the train ; 
There were noble women and hardy men, 

Who had started across the plain. 

Old Grizzly Jake was our leader, 

And the bravest in all the train ; 
His home was among the mountains, 

His camp was the rolling plain ; 
But his heart bore a heavy burden, 

And his face wore wrinkles of care, 
But his eyes were as bright as the eagle's, 

Though frosted his once golden hair. 

He sat by my side this evening, 

On the trunk of a fallen tree, 
When Flora, our blue-eyed darling, 

Came over and sat on his knee. 
" Untie Jake," said the child, " I do love 'oo ; 

And mamma said 'oo feel so bad, 
Taus 'oo hasn't no 'ittle F'ora — 

Is 'at why 'oo always feel sad?" 

Great drops stood in beads on his forehead, 

And tears rolled away from his eyes, 
As he answered : " My Jean and my Flora 

Are waiting for me in the skies. 
Yes, darling, I had a sweet Flora, 

And Jean was her mother— my wife. 
Aye, dead ! Oh, God ! it was fearful ! 

Cut down in the morning of life. 



GRIZZLY JAKE. 119 

" And still — but why should I think it — 

My Flora may still be alive ; 
Set I saw in her breast the cold arrow. 

No, no ; she could never survive. 
No, child, it is too long a story, 

And perhaps it would cause you a fright. 
There, now, run away to your mamma." 

" Untie Jake, let me tiss 'oo dood-night." ' 

" Good-night, and God bless you, my angel ! 

Oh, God !" said the old pioneer, 
" Thou only can know my deep sorrow ; 

And, God ! Thou art all whom I fear. 
Nor hell, with its fury, can daunt me, 

And, death, I would welcome thee still ; 
But the fiends have not all departed, 

And one there is left, I must kill." 

The camp was as still as the night wind- 
Not a sound, save the stirring of leaves— 

As the scout strolled off to the river, 
And walked to and fro 'neath the trees, 

Until long after midnight, still walking, 
He saw (yet he seemed not to see) 

The head of a Sioux in the willows. 
" It was Flora who sent me," said he. 

He knew what was coming at daybreak, 

Nor feared, while yet dark, for his life ; 
For he knew they'd not dare to attack him, 

Except with the arrow or knife ; 
So he kept out of range of such weapons, 

And carelessly walked to the train, 
Where he lay down, and spoke in a whisper, 

Lest fright and confusion might reign. 

And soon every man in the outfit 

Was piling up bacon and flour, 
Inside of the wheels of each wagon. 

The morning would dawn in an hour. 



120 THE POET SCOUT. 

The relief for the three-o'clock herder 
Went out with his orders O. K. 

Said Jake: "Round your cattle up slowly ; 
"We'll corral them at break of day." 

Every woman and child was still sleeping, 

And all were prepared for the fight, 
When our pet of the train, little Flora, 

Awoke from a dream, in a fright ; 
And, seeing old Jake with his rifle, 

She whispered these words in his ear : 
"Untie Jake, while asleep, I was d' earning 

Dat 'oo 'ittle F'ora was here." 

" God bless you !" again said Old Grizzly, 

And he whispered these words in her ear : 
" Keep low till' I come again, darling ; 

I believe that my angels are here.' ' 
" Twenty men," said the old man of sixty, 

" Fleet-footed, with nerves that are steel, 
Follow me, while the morning is darkest. 

Good angels are with us, I feel. 

•* And you who remain with your sweethearts, 

And you who must fight for your wives, 
Be guided by me, I entreat you, 

And we will not lose precious lives ; 
And, men, when you bring up your rifles — 

Don't mind though these devils may yell ; 
It is only a ruse to stampede you — 

Just look through your sights, and look well. 

" Don't fire till within twenty paces — 
. By that time each face you can see. 
They believe all are sleeping ; and, comrades, 

Just aim 'twixt the shoulder and knee, 
While we strike for their rear in the sage-brush. 

No fear — by the time we are seen, 
You will have struck for the living, 

And I for my Flora and Jean.'' 



BIRDS OF THE HUDSON DAY. 121 

Uncle Jake and his twenty departed. 

Not a man, not a woman or child 
But believed in his grit and his goodness ; 

And the pet of the train sweetly smiled, 
As she whispered, "He's dust 'ike the Sav'or ; 

And, mamma, 1 ain't dot no fear, 
Taus Dod sent his F'ora his angel 

To tell him bad Ingins were here. 

On the field there are fifty good Indians, 

And all looking peaceful and bland. 
Perhaps they have gone to be angels, 

Perhaps they have gone to be d d; 

And perhaps Grizzly Jake will recover, 

And look on his angel and queen, 
Por Flora is smoothing his ringlets, 

And bathing his temple— his Jean. 



BIRDS OF THE HUDSON BAY. 

Evert day when I open the door 
Of my little cabin, I see before 
Two little birds — a happy pair, 
Sitting, and cooing, and twittering there- 
Sitting and waiting, perched on a bough, 
And never afraid of me— somehow 
Waiting to see the door open wide ; 
Then in a moment, close to my side, 
They come and chirrup, but never sing- 
Chirrup for crumbs, waiting for spring — 
Spring that will come, melting the snow, 
Then my pets will leave me* and go 
Off to the meadows, happy and gay, 
Beautiful birds of the Hudson Bay. 

* Hudson Bay birds (natives of British Columbia). 



122 THE POET SCOUT. 

MY IDEAS. 

While in Barkerville, B. C, a certain California expert condemned the quartz, 
and said we had no ledges; in answer to which I wrote the following verses : 

Barker, I love thy rustic hills, 

I love thy streams and bowers ; 
I've lingered near thy rippling rills, 

And gathered sweetest flowers ; 
And down thy wondrous valleys, 

And up each snow-clad peak, 
I've wandered where the roses 

Of nature's grandeur speak. 

Oh, where in God's creation, 

Can we poor people go, 
And find a better prospect 

Than these our croppings show ? 
And tell me, oh, ye experts, 

From whence the millions came, 
That rolled out in the sluices, 

Since Barker got its name ? 

And if there are no ledges 

In this little world of ours, 
Go cast aside your sledges, 

And pluck your budding flowers. 
Go draw your stakes and burn them, 

And cache your mining tools, 
And tell the whole creation 

That you're a set of fools. 

And then, when you have vanished, 

Some kid-gloved millionaire 
Will step into your countrj', 

And call it wondrous fair. 
And ere your hair is silvered, 

The news will come to you : 
" The world has nothing richer 

Than the mines of Cariboo." 



THE PEOSPECTOE'S SOLILOQUY. 123 

THE PEOSPECTOE'S SOLILOQUY. 

While sitting one day at one of our mining claims in the Black Kange of New 
Mexico, discussing the propriety of sinking a shaft, my paid, Jim Blain, Detter 
known as "Apache Jim," arose, and, striking a tragic attitude, cried out: "To 
sink, or not to sink ? that's the question.' ' This incident suggested ihe following : 

To sink or not to sink ? That is the question ; 

Whether 'tis fitter in the prospector to sell 

The highly metalliferous croppings for a song, 

Or, using muscle, to dig down, 

And thus, by perseverance, strike it rich. 

To work, to sink, and by that sinking strike a lead 

Of gold or silver, or finest copper glance 

That luck is heir to. 'Tis a consummation 

Devoutly to be wished. To sink, to blast ; 

To blast, perchance to bu'st— aye ! there's the rub, 

For at a shallow depth what base may come 

When we have shovelled off th ; uncertain top 

Must give us pause. There's the respect 

Which makes calamity of a prospect-hole ; 

For who can tell what pinch may come below 

The argentiferous stuff — comjDonent parts of lead, 

The metalliferous decomposed conglomerate 

Eruption of nature, all broken up ; perchance 

The insolence of luckier pards, and then 

The chance the miner takes by sinking shaft, 

While he himself might be much better off 

By simply waiting. What is 't we would not do 

But that the dread of something yet unseen, 

The undiscovered pay-streak (perhaps not there). 

That makes us rather raise the monuments we have 

Than open up the ground we know not of. 

Thus prospecting makes cowards of us all, 

And so the prospects of a big bonanza 

Are sicklied o'er by some dark, cussed doubt, 

And speculators in a surface prize 

Do thus regard their interest, turn aside, 

And lose, perchance, a million ! 



}24 THE POET SCOUT. 

THE MTNEK'S DREAM — XMAS EVE. 
To my Comrade and Brother, T. W. Keene. 

It was Christmas eve, and the pale moon smiled 

Through the silvery clouds of gray ; 
The scene was grand — in nature wild — 

And stars shone bright as day ; 
And, all alone by his stony hearth, 

A miner, young and strong, 
Thinking of all he loved on earth, 

Sat, singing this little song : 

Song and Chorus. 
Dedicated to everyone who has Loved Ones far away. 
Dearest Annie, I am thinking, 

While the night winds whisper low, 
Of my loving wife and babies, 

And my heart is all aglow ; 
For I've struck it in the gravel, 

And our home will soon be free ; 
So I write to tell you, darling, 

Kiss the little ones for me. 

Chorus. 
Kiss the little ones for papa ; 

Tell them, in their joy and glee, 
How I love our little darlings — 
Kiss the little ones for me. 

Tell our darlings it is twilight, 

While the shades of evening fall, 
And I'm gazing on their shadows, 

On their baby faces small ; 
How I dwell upon each feature, 

Full of love and ecstasy, 
While I kiss our babies' pictures — ■ 

Kiss the little ones forme. 

chorus. 



THE MINER'S DREAM — XMAS EVE. 125 

Tell the little ones I'm coming, 

When they go to bed each night, 
As they whisper, "God bless papa !" 

With their baby faces bright. 
I have written to the banker — 

You have waited patiently ; 
While I dream of home, my Annie, 

Kiss the little ones for me. 

Chorus. 



The tears rolled down his swarthy cheek. 

And the heart that knew no fear 
Beat faster as he heard her speak — 

Or, rather, seemed to hear 
His Annie's voice, so low and sweet, 

In answer to his lay : 
"Dear Harry, we again shall meet, 

While love is in its May." 

"Oh, happy dream ! K dream it be — 

I'll lay me here till dawn, 
And close my eyes, that I may see 

This happy scene go on." 
And while the glowing embers died 

Upon the stony hearth, 
He wandered back to Annie's side, 

The spot most dear on earth. 

He dreamed that all was gloomy there 

At twilight Christmas eve — 
The children cold, the larder bare, 

And no one to relieve. 
And, listening through a broken glass, 

He heard his dear wife say : 
"Don't cry, my darlings — yet, alas ! 

To-morrow's Christmas day !" 

Oh, how his manly bosom heaved — 
His face was all aglow ; 



126 THE POET SCOUT. 

"My darlings soon shall be relieved. 

I'll go right in — but, no ! 
Old Santa Claus shall play his part ; 

I'll dress him to his eyes, 
And fill each little saddened heart 

With joy and sweet surprise." 

And as the rays of morning light 

Were peeping o'er the hill, 
Old Santa Claus, with hair snow-white, 

Sat down on the window-sill, 
Weary and loaded with precious freight 

From his back to the cutter-sled. 
"Ha, ha!" he laughed, "I'm not too late — 

They're just getting out of bed." 

The children's tongues were loose again, 

And their eyes were opened wide ; 
The rags were gone from the broken pane, 

And three stockings hung inside. 
The largest stocking was long and red, 

And lettered with gold and bright ; 
"This is for little Jack," it said, 

While little May's was white ; 

And the third for Annie, the faithful wife. 

"Oh, mamma, mamma dear!" 
Said Jack, while showing a pearly knife, 

"Old Santa Claus was here !" 
"And, mamma," said little May, whose eyes 

Were beaming with delight, 
" Dod heard our prayers up in a sties, 

'Tos we prayed so hard las' night. 

•'Yes, darlings, God has heard your prayers, 
And smiled behind the frown." 

Old Santa Claus had climbed up-stairs, 
And now came tumbling down ; 

And such a sight was never seen 
By mortal eyes before, 



THE MINER'S DREAM — XMAS EVE. 127 

While Santa Glaus, the miner king, 
With good things strewed the floor. 

Then quick he threw aside his staff, 

The white beard from his face, 
While 'mid a storm of cry and laugh, 

And three in one embrace, 
The happy miner said that day 

He never more would roam ; 
And thus, two thousand miles away, 

He spent his Christmas home. 

***** 
"Consarn mypicter! Harry, lad; 

Laws-ee ! yer ain't up yet? 
Why, boy, what makes yer look so sad ? 

Thar's somethiu' wrong, I'll bet ; 
Corral me if yer don't look sick ! 

Wa'al, pshaw ! I'll jest prescribe— 
Thar's hur letter, long and thick — 

That's why I tuck this ride. 

"I'll bet two beaver-skins agin 

A starved coyotte's pelt, 
And all the ore on Jennie Lynn 

That's worth a darn to smelt, 
As that's a daisy Christmas-box 

To drive away the blues. 
So, Harry lad, let this old fox 

Go off and take a snooze." 

Hold on, old pard ! this is, indeed, 

A Christmas-box for me — 
The medicine I sorely need — 

I'll share it, pard, with thee. 
From Annie, 'way back in the East ; 

My fears were all absurd. 
To-day they'll have a glorious feast — 

The banker's kept his word. 
Pobt Craig, New Mexico. 



128 THE POET SCOUT. 



"OUR NUGGET." 

MAT CODY CRAWFORD. 

Some call her blue eyes, 

And some call her pet, 
Violet and sunshine, 

And sweet mignonette ; 
Golden hair, blue bird, 

And sweet little love, 
But I call her May flower, 

My little white dove. 

Chorus. 
May flower, May flower, 

Budding in beauty and love, 
Daffodil dimples and daisies, 

I call her my little white dove. 

Eyes like her mother's, 

And lips like a peach ; 
Cheeks like two apples 

That's just out of reach ; 
Ears like bright amber, 

With gold hair above, 
My own little May flower, 

My little white dove. 

Chorus. 

God bless our darling 

And keep her alway, 
Guide her through flow'rets 

On each coming May. 
Teach her to love us, 

As much as we love 
Rosy cheeks, blue eyes, 

Our little white dove. 

Chorus. 



130 THE POET SCOUT. 

BUFFALO CHIPS, THE SCOUT. 

To Buffalo Bill. 

The following verses on the life and death of poor old Buffalo Chips aro 
founded entirely on facts. His death occurred on September 8tb, 1876, at Slim 
Buites. He was within three feet of me when he fell, uttering the woids credited 
to him below. 

The evenin' sun war settin', droppin' slowly in the west, 

An' the soldiers, tired an' tuckered, in the camp would find that rest 

"Which the settin' sun would bring 'em, for they marched since break o' 

day— 
Not a bite to eat 'cept horses as war killed upon the way ; 
For, ye see, our beans an' crackers, an' our pork war outen sight. 
An' the boys expected rashuns when they struck our camp that night ; 
For a little band had started for to bring some cattle on, 
An' they struck an Indian village, which they captured jist at dawn. 

"Wall, I war with that party when we captured them ar' Sioux, 
An' we quickly sent a courier to tell old Crook the news. 
Old Crook ! I should say Gener'l, cos he war with the boys- 
Shared his only hard-tack, our sorrows and our joys ; 
An' thar is one thing sartin — he never put on style. 
He'd greet the scout or soldier with a social kinder smile, 
An' that's the kind o' soldier as the prairy likes to get, 
An' every man would trump death's ace for Crook or Miles, you bet. 

But I'm kinder off the racket, cos these Gener'ls gets enough 
O' praise "ithout my chippin', so I'll let up on that puff ; 
For I want ter tell a story 'bout a mate of mine as fell, 
Cos I loved the honest fellar, an' he did his dooty well ; 
Buffalo Chips we call'd him, but his other name war W 7 hite ; 
1*11 tell ye how he got that name, an' reckon I am right. 
You see, a lot of big-bugs an' officers came out 
One time to hunt th' buffaler, an' fish for speckled trout. 

Wall, little Phil — ye've heerd on him, a dainty little cuss 

As rode his charger twenty miles to stop a little muss. 

Well, Phil, he said ter Jonathin, whose other name war White ; 

" You go an' find them buffaler, an' see you get 'em right." 



BUFFALO CHIPS, THE SCOUT. 131 

So White he went an' found 'em, an' he found 'em sech a band 
As he sed would set 'em crazy, an' little Phil looked bland ; 
But when the outfit halted, one bull was all war there, 
Then Phil he call him " Buffalo Chips," an' swore a little sware. 

Wall, White he kinder liked it, cos the Gener'l called him Chips, 

An' he us'ter wear two shooters in a belt above his hips. 

Then he said : " Now, look ye. Gener'l, since ye' ve called me that ar' name, 

Jist around them little sand-hills is yer dog-gone pesky game." 

But when the hunt war over, an' the table spread for lunch, 

The Gener'l called for glasses, an' wanted his in punch ; 

An' when the punch was punished, the Gener'l smacked his lips, 

While squar' upon the table sot a dish o' Buffalo Chips. 

The Gener'l looked confounded, an' he also looked for White, 

But Jonathin he reckon'd it war better he should lite ; 

So he skinned across the prairy, cos, ye see, he didn't mind 

A clvpphi any longer while the Gener'l saw the blind, 

Fur the Gener'l would a-raised him, if he'd jist held up his hand, 

But he thought he wouldn't see him, cos he didn't hev the sand, 

An' he rode as fast — aye, faster, than the Gener'l did that day, 

Like lightin' down from Winchester, some twenty miles away. 

Wall, White he had no cabin, an' no home ter call his own, 
So Buffaler Bill he took him an' shared with him his home. 
An' how he loved Bill Cody ! By gosh ! it war a sight 
Ter see him watch his shadder an' foller him at night, 
Cos Bill war kinder hated by a cussed gang o' thieves 
As carried pistols in thar belts an' bowies in thar sleeves ; 
An' Chips he never left him for fear he'd get a pill, 
Nor would he think it moughty hard to die for Buffalo Bill. 

We us'ter mess together — that ar' Chips an' Bill an' me ; 

An' ye oughter watch his movements ; it would do ye good ter see 

How he us'ter cook them wittles, an' gather lots o' greens 

To mix up with the juicy pork, an' them unruly beans. 

An' one cold, chilly mornin' he bought a lot o' corn, 

An' a little flask o' likker, as cost fifty cents a horn. 

Tho' forty yards war nowhar, it war finished soon, ye bet ; 

But, friends, I promised some one, and I'm strong teetotal yet. 



132 THE POET SCOUT. 

It war twenty-fourth o' August, in the last Centennial year. 

We bid farewell to Cody an' gave a hearty cheer ; 

An' Chips said, lookin' after : " I may never see him more, 

Nor meet him in his cabin as I us'ter do of yore, 

Whar I us'ter take his babies an' buy each one a toy, 

An' play with them ar' younkers jist like a great big boy." 

An' when the cold lead struck him—" Jack, boy," said he, " you tell — 

He stopped, then said : "Bless Cody, the babies — all — farewell." 

He's sleepin' in the mountains, near a little runnin' brook, 

Thar's not a soul to see him, 'cept the angels take a look, 

Or a butterfly may linger on his grave at early morn — 

No mortal eye may see it till old Gabriel toots his horn ; 

For we laid him 'neath the foot trail that the Sioux might never know, 

As they'd dig him up and scalp him if they had the slightest show : 

An' we marched two thousand footmen and horsemen o'er his breast — 

Without a stone to mark the spot, we left the scout to rest. 

An' then I sent a telegraph and tol' Bill he war dead ; 

I'll give in full his answer, an' this war what he said : 

" Poor White, he war my truest friend. My wife and children, too, 

Have wept as if he war our own. An', Jack, I ask of you 

To write a little verse for us in mem'ry o' poor White." 

So that war Cody's telegraph, an' that is why I write ; 

But laws'ee ! my book-larnin' ar' shaky for a bard — 

I can't jist do him justice, but Heaven holds his reward. 



TO JAMES G. FAIK. 

MY FRIEND. 

Dear friend, I have a word to say to you, 
Something to tell ; perhaps you never knew 
Half my distress, the shock of Fortune's frown, 
That bore me down to earth, and kept me down, 
Till you, with generous heart, made clear the way ; 
Gave hope where hope was dead — a sunny ray 



CUSTEPw 133 

Dispersed the clouds that overhung my sky, 

And made my crutches to the four winds fly. 

Oh, sir, had I a heart of stone, 

Instead of flesh and blood, I'd gladly own 

That you have made of me this very day 

A man, but in a different way 

From kicks and frowns (by which some men are made), 

By starting me a little up the grade. 

" Now help yourself /" I thank you from my heart 

For those last words, because they form a part 

Of this new life — and make my bosom thrill — 

A beacon light to guide me up life's hill. 

Once there, upon the summit of its brow, 

My heart will speak as it is speaking now ; 

From out its greatest depths will breathe a name 

That made me in my joy forget that I was lame. 

Then — Heaven helping every act of mine 

Will prove my gratefulness for one of thine. 

So let me live that you may proudly say, 

I was his friend in need, and am to-day. 

San Feanctsco, September, 1879. 



CUSTER. 

To General Wesley Merrill, Custer* s Friend and Comrade. 

"No spot on ihe American Continent" says Major Newsom, in his "Black Hills 
Sketches," is "so grand and beautiful as Custer. Lying peacefully in a basin, 
French Creek winding through it, and the ground gently ascending even to the 
apex of Harney's Peak, the scene is lovely beyond description. In front of the 
city a high mountain rears its head; just outside of the line of houses a bluff 
surrounds the place in a semicircle, and from ihis bluff no grander view ever 
fell upon the vision of man. Talk about scenery in Europe ! It is tame in com- 
parison with that about Custer. Gazing out from this po'nt no sight could be 
more enchanting. Here at our feet is the city, so clean and regular. Yonder is 
an undulating plain, as charming as the graceful figure of a woman ; on our left 
winds the road ; on our right, swelling knolls, hillocks, valleys, and just beyond, 
grand, natural avenues, three hundred feet wide, on either side of which are 
uplifts of rocks, and on the top of wh'eh are trees. Further on are parks, 



134 THE POET SCOUT. 

grottos, rills, vales, streams, valleys, mountains, and every element necessary to 
make a most imposing scene. These avenues are lined with trees, and the small 
road which winds through them reminds one of the magnificent domain of an 
English lord rather than nature's handiwork. An artificial park of this charac- 
ter would cost at least ten million dollars. 

There's a spot in the 'woodland 

My heart longs to see, 
Where streamlets are dancing 

With laughter and glee ; 
Where the sweet daffodil 

And the daisies are seen, 
And the deer loves to sport 
On its mantle of green. 
Chorus. 
In the valley of Custer, 
The park with its cluster 
Of little log cabins spread out on the green, 
'Tis the valley of Custer, 
Where oft we did muster, 
And drank to the brave from the soldier's canteen. 

Oh, the flower of that valley, 

Whose bright name it bears, 
Now sleeps near the river, 

Away from life's cares. 
But still there's a spot 

Holds his mem'ry most dear, 
The heart of each comrade — 

Each brave pioneer. 



Chorus. 



The pine trees are sighing 

On hill-tops around ; 
We hear not his voice, 

Nor the sweet bugle sound. 
Our tears wet the sod 

On that terrible morn, 
When God called the roll 

On the " Little Big Horn." 



Chorus. 



GOOD-BY. 135 



GOOD-BY. 

To one who had been very kind to me, and watched by my bed?ide night and 
day until convalescent, after a severe wound. 

Good-bt, my darling, since you must away 

To other scenes, and other hearts to greet you ; 
With me I could not longer ask you stay, 

Besides, my dear, I know not how to treat you. 
You and I have led a different life — 

You among the best and most refined, 
While I afloat upon a sea of strife 

With vulgar men— the roughest of mankind. 

And yet, this heart that beats alone for thee — 

This heart that learned to love blue eyes so well — 
Is just as tender as a child's could be, 

And you can make it heaven for me — ah ! well. 
Oh, darling, you can never know. God knows 

The feelings of a heart so nearly broken. 
And you, at times, as cold as mountain snows, 

With not one word of love — one little token. 

If I, deep in my heart, could feel 

That you were mine — and mine alone — for life, 
That you would, trusting to my strong arms, steal, 

And some day let me call you Utile wife. 
Oh, God ! the thought most drives me mad, indeed ! 

And why ? Your actions merit not the thought, 
For now you're almost anxious to be freed 

E'en from my sight— and will I be forgot ? 

If so, then say the word. Do say 

You do not love me, for suspense is pain ; 
Tell me, darling, ere you go away, 

If I have loved my blue-eyed girl in vain ? 
If so, 'tis better, dear, for you and me — 

Better if the truth to me you tell — 
Better, though it breaks one heart, that we 

Should meet no more— but say a last farewell ! 



136 THE POET SCOUT. 



THE FIRST THAT DIED. 

About eight o'clock one evening, in the wiuter of 1875, while I was washing the 
dishes after supper in my cabin, two travellers entered, hungry, weary, and foot- 
sore. Af'er preparing supper, and giving them a warm corner by the glowing 
log fire, they told the following story: The elder man, John A. Byers, for- 
merly captaiu of a company in a Maryland regiment, started from Sioux City 
for ihe Hills, and was joined next day by his companion, Charley, a boy about 
eighteen years of age. They had travelled five hundred miles, carrying their pro- 
visions and blankets, and after escaping a hundred dangers reached Custer 
City almost exhausted. They stayed at my cabin for nearly a week, when By- 
ers went to Dead wood. Chat ley remained and went to work building himself a 
shelter. In company with another boy th' y dug a hole in the ground, about two 
feet and a half deep, and then carried poles on their shoulders with which they 
made a roof, making their dugout about three logs high all round. After cover- 
ing the roof with boughs, they spaded about two feet of clay on the top. Two 
nights after the roof broke ihrough, killing Charley outright, and nearly killing 
his companion. The saddest point about this affecting incident was that no 
letters, papers, or even the slightest, elf w to his home or friends could be found ; 
all that we knew was that, he h*d walked all the way from Sioux City to the 
Black Hills to die and start a graveyard. On that day, while sitting on the green 
beside his demolished cabin, 1 wrote these lines: 

Pooe Charley braved the wintry storms, 

And footed it all the way ; 
And now he is a bleeding corpse — 

He died at dawn to-day. 
His is the old, old story — 

He saw bright prospects here ; 
He left his home, his friends and all — 

Perhaps a mother dear. 

If so, God pity that mother, 

Perhaps alone and poor ; 
When some one breaks the blighting news 

Her heart will break, I'm sure, 
To think she never, never more 

Will clasp him to her breast ; 
Among the peaks in Custer Park 

Poor Charley now must rest. 



THOSE EYES. 137 

Comrades here in the golden land 

Will drop a silent tear 
For those poor Charley left behind — 

A sister or mother dear. 
Perhaps some blue-eyed little girl, 

With sunshine on her brow, 
Is down upon her bended knees 

And praying for him now. 

Down in the glade beside the brook 

Our boy shall sleep to-morrow ; 
His weary march of life is o'er, 

Now free from care and sorrow. 
And while we think of home, and love, 

And better days in store, 
We humbly pray to Him above, 

And bow to Heaven once more. 



THOSE EYES 
Written in Cariboo, B. C'., on looking at the photo of an old sweetheart. 

We meet as strangers now. Those eyes — 
Those dreamy eyes— whose love-light shone 

On me like sunbeams from the skies, 
And gazed so fondly in mine own, 

No more have warmth, love, light, no more 

For me, as in the days of yore. 

Those witching eyes of heavenly blue, 
Beneath long silken lashes dreaming, 

While far from her in Cariboo 

I oft have tried to solve their meaning ; 

While something whispers as I sigh — 

Old boy, those flames were all a lie. 



138 THE POET SCOUT. 

THE PICNIC BY THE BROOK. 

SONG AND DANCE. 

Written for Miss Nellie MvHenry, of Saulsbury's Troubadours. 

I have wandered o'er the prairie 

When the roses were in bloom ; 
I have listened to the streamlets 

In the cheery month of June ; 
While the mocking-birds were singing 

I have listened in the dell, 
But nothing ever cheered me 

Like the voice of little Nell. 

Chorus. 
For she's sweeter than the lilies by the brook, 

And her voice is like the streamlets in the dell ; 
It echoes back from every little nook, 

And the stars are not so bright as little Nell. 

By the brook she sang so sweetly 

That my heart was all aglow, 
And then she danced so neatly, 

With her light fantastic toe, 
Can you wonder I was captured ? 

But I fear it's wrong to tell 
How I enjoyed that picnic 

By the brook with little Nell. 

Chorus. 

She's as pretty as a picture, 

And her heart is full of glee, 
And how my heart was beating 

When she looked and smiled on me. 
But, indeed, I'll never whisper 

How in love with her I fell ; 
For I hear she's got a lover, 

This bewitching little Nell. 

Chorus. 



AFTER TAPS. 139 

Yet, no matter where I wander, 

Over prairie, land or sea, 
The rippling of the waters 

Will repeat her songs to me. 
Tho' she leaves for far Australia, 

I shall always wish her well — 
Good-by to brookside picnics 

And the voice of little Nell. 

Chorus. 



AFTER TAPS. 

Dear comrades, Grant is laid away, 

Oar chief has gone to rest ; 
What matter where they plant his clay, 

To you who loved him best? 
And since the North and South combine, 

'Twas all he asked from you, 
Though after taps his deeds will shine 

Till Gabriel sounds tattoo. 

And how your thoughts went back again 

To days of long ago, 
When near him, at the battle's front, 

With loyal hearts aglow. 
And as you marched behind his bier 

From morn till set of sun, 
You thought he must be very near 

To Abe and Washington. 

And Lee was there to greet him, too, 

And say, " Friend Grant, just see, 
The sunny South has sent Fitz-Hugh 

To say a word for me." 
There's Gordon too, and Little Phil ; 

There's Sherman, Buck, and Joe, 
And Stonewall says 'tis Heaven's will — 

There's peace and love below. 



140 



THE POET SCOUT. 




KIT CARSON. 

(Adws, Companero.) 

Adios, dear old hero, in peace may you slumber, 
Adown near the banks of the old Eio Grande ; 

We think of thy daring with awe and with wonder, 
As near to thy tomb now uncovered we stand. 

A rude, simple tablet, a plain slab of marble, 

Is all that your comrades have placed o'er your grave. 

Sleep on, loyal heart, while the wild song-birds warble 
An anthem of praise to the deeds of the brave. 

The veil of the future thy brave soul hath riven 

To drink in the sweetest celestial joys ; 
In advance thou has taken the trail up to heaven 

To locate a camp for the rest of the boys. 



TO CHARLEY. 141 



TO CHARLEY. 

MY DEAR OLD PARD. 

Lonely to-night in my little log cabin, 

I am thinking of you and the days long ago, 
When together we sat on the peak of old Harney, 

Drinking the grandeur of nature below. 
True, it was grand, and well I remember 

The rapture that beamed in your bright sunny eyes 
As you looked through the glass tow'rd the valley of Custer, 

With her thousands of peaks towering up to the skies. 

Then did we picture the great Eastern cities, 

Comparing the grandeur of nature and art, 
While you said— no art can compare with tbis picture ; 

And I acquiesced from the depths of my heart ; 
For e'en when a boy I loved the wild mountains, 

The green, flowery valleys, the laughter of rills ; 
And often in fancy and dreamland I wander 

Back to my boyhood among the wild hills. 

My comrades, the brave pioneers of the mountains, 

Loved their young chieftain, and I loved him too ; 
The reason was fully explained at your cabin, 

The day that I borrowed that bronco* from you. 
And when we returned from the chase the next morning, 

Your welcoming shout and your honest embrace 
Was more to me then than the laurels of glory, 

Won by the proudest of all Adam's race. 

* Charley W. was the special correspondent of the Kansas City Times for the 
Black Hills. When Charley first made my acquaintance I was sitting astride of 
a half-cut log on my half-built cabin We had many hunts together, and on one 
occasion the Indians got our whole camp outfit, together with my saddle, field- 
glasses, and my saddle bags, containing my scrap-book, which contained copies 
of scraps I had saved for over six years. One morning the Indians ran off with 
sixteen head of horses, and my white charger among the rest. I rushed down 
to Charley's tent, and he gave me his bronco to go after the reds. Twelve of 
our boys started, and we returned next day with eight of the stolen horses, 
which the Indians were forced to drop. 



142 THE POET SCOUT. 

Oh, what a life — away from temptation — 

Away from the snares of life's busy throng, 
Singing in chorus those odes of the woodland 

In notes that were tuned by the mocking-bird's song. 
In ignorant bliss, and oh, how much better 

Than knowledge that's only acquired to deceive, 
By hypocrites robbing the widow and orphan, 

And crimes that are almost too vile to believe. 

And yet how I yearned for the knowledge you gave me, 

For you were the first who had taken my hand — 
You were the first to encourage me onward, 

And picture my future in language most grand ; 
And since then my verses, the fruit of my nature, 

These unpolished roughs, the impulse of my heart, 
Have found some admirers e'en among critics 

Well versed in literature, science and art. 

Thus while the bright star of hope is before me 

I still shall continue to work with a will ; 
Determined to scale all the heights of misfortune, 

And slowly creep over adversity's hill. 
Then, my dear friend, when the height of ambition 

Is mine — and way up on the summit I stand — 
I shall think of the comrade who first gave me courage- 

Who gave me new life and a brother's right hand. 
In the Mountains, February 28, 1879. 



ODE TO CARIBOO FRIENDS. 

At last I must leave you, dear home in the mountains, 

At last say farewell to your dear Cariboo ! 
No longer to sip from its bright pearly fountains 

The cool draught of water distilled from the dew. 
Oh, Barker, fair village, adown by the brook-side, 

Where millions have sprang from thy watery breast, 
Fear not for thy future, fair queen of the mountains, 

For millions and millions are still 'neath each crest. 



our "jack." 143 

I feel it, believe it, God knows I speak truly, 

And would that some others might speak as they believe ; 
But when experts grow zealous, Oh, Lord, how unruly ! 

And in their excitement don't care to deceive. 
But Time is a worker much better than experts, 

Though slowly, yet surely, he makes all things right ; 
And so when some experts are dead and forgotten, 

Your dear Cariboo will be prosperous and bright. 

Farewell, dear old comrades, you old Forty-niners, 

God bless you, dear boys, till I meet you again ! 
Which will be ere the snowflakes have covered your cabins, 

So sure as the sunshine which follows the rain. 
Leave you forever ? How could you believe it — 

Leave all the home I have got in this world ? 
No ! and returning I never will leave it 

Till justice is done and the truth is unfurled. 
Baekeeville, B. C. 



OUR "JACK." 

IN MEMOKIAM. 

Lines written on the death of John Bilsland, who was killed by a slide of snow 
while attempting to get it off the shaft-house on Burns's Creek, Cariboo, March 
13th, 1879. 

And still they go, the very best, 

Cut down in their youth and bloom. 
There's something amiss in this region of ours, 
I reckon we must have offended the powers, 
For the Lord is culling our favorite flowers, 

And another is laid in the tomb ; 
Another is laid 'neath the sod to rest — 

Killed before life had its noon. 

I have seen, sometimes, on the battle field, 

The pride of our company fall, 
But I never felt as I did that day 
When they told me that Jack had passed away — 



144 THE POET SCOUT. 

Jack, who was always happy and gay, 
And one who would spend his all. 

Prospecting deep, taking chances of yield, 
He would stand with his boys or fall. 

Escaping the perils of land and sea, 
Unharmed for many a year, 

And standing now by the shaft-house door, 

As oft he stood in the days of yore ; 

Then up the ladder, on roof once more, 
A man who knew no fear. 

Then down with the cruel snow went he- 
No friend, no comrade near. 

A good yet peculiar man was Jack, 

And a thoroughbred mountaineer ; 
No matter what hurt, he would never squeal — 
His name was honor, and true as steel — 
And his comrades say he could build a wheel 

You could turn with a single tear ; 
You smile— but I reckon I'm on the track, 
Which to look at his work would appear. 

One characteristic I want to note, 

Though he had no child of his own, 
How the children all to Jack would come 
And say : " Uncle Jat, has oou dot some dum ?" 
" No, but you bet I'll get you some." 

And his eyes with rapture shone, 
And voice like a chime of bells afloat, 
With music in each tone. 

The best mechanic without a doubt 
(And I believe I can see it now), 

Perhaps they have struck it rich up there ; 

And hunting in vain, they could not scare 

A man who could build a wheel to compare 
With Jack. So, to show them how, 

The angel of death put his light right out, 
And I reckon he's there with them now. 



UNDER THE SOD. 145 

All I can say, I must wish him well, 

If he's taken some heavenly stock, 
For a prospect there on the heavenly shore 
Is better than millions of gold in store. 
And they say there are chances for millions more, 

Who can find (if they try) the bed rock- 
That rock of ages, which yields so well, 

And Christ is the kej' to the lock. 



UNDER THE SOD. 

TO JOHN P. 

Lints on (he Death of Edwin L. Jones. 

Under the sod he is sleeping to-day, 

Close by the sea-girdled shore ; 
Under the sod and the dew and the clay, 

We can look on his face nevermore. 
Jovial, kind-hearted, good-natured and free — 
In peace let him sleep 'neath the shade of the tree 
In the land that he loved. 

Under the sod tbey have laid him to rest, 
The lover of right and the hater of wrong ; 

As honest a man as ever God blest, 

His love for a friend everlasting and strong. 

And if for the wise and tb.9 good there is rest, 

Then Edwin is surely at home with the blest, 
For the heavenly gates were ajar. 

Under the sod near the murmuring sea, 
So far from the home of his childhood ; 

So far from the cabin and old mountain tree, 
Where he sported with Sam in the wildwocd. 

His trials are over, his good deeds are done, 

His battles are fought and the victory is won, 
And Edwin has gone to his God. 



146 THE POET SCOUT. 

THE OLD MINER. 

To Ihe Boys of Cariboo. 

I's a miner, I ar\ an' a good un. 

It's nigh onto forty year 
Since first I landed at 'Frisco, 

A youngster — with lots o' good cheer ; 
I waltzed right inter the placer, 

An' struck it — you bet yer boots. 
But I dropped it a-buckin' the tiger, 

Along with some other galoots. 

But that didn't dampen my ardor. 

Ye see I war hearty an' strong, 
An' I know'd by exertin' my muscle, 

I'd fetch it agin afore long ; 
So back to the diggin's I travelled, 

But somehow about that time 
There war heaps of the boys sick with fever, 

While I took ague in mine. 

Wall, I thinned right down to a wafer, 

My clothes war too big for my chest, 
I could made a respectable great-coat 

By jist tuckin' sleeves in my vest ; 
But the diggin's war very onhealthy, 

An' so for a permanent cure 
I struck for high ground on the mountains 

For pastures not greener, but newer. 

Now here's where I thought that I struck it, 

This time it war quartz as I found, 
An' so I kept pokin' an' gaddin' 

Till one day a stranger come round. 
An' told me as how he war huntin' 

A permanent place to reside ; 
An' so I sez, " Here ar' my fortin, 

And plenty for you, pard, beside." 



MY OWN MOUNTAIN TREE. 147 

He stayed with me two weeks, then wilted ; 

Said he, pard, I've bin thar afore ; 
It 'taint no use workin' for nothin', 

An' for grub we war nigh run ashore ; 
So he left me ; an' bout a week after 

Another come joggin' along, 
With plenty o' grub. So I sold out ; 

He bought me for— well, just a song. 

Now I never did swar, 'tain't my nater, 

But, Lord ! when I heerd o' their game, 
I reckin the air smelt o' brimstone — 

Wall, swarin' ar' too mild a name. 
This rooster (who'd bin thar afore, mind) 

War an expert from 'Frisco, ye see ; 
So he skinned out, and sent his stool pigeon 

To work that bonanza for me. 

Since then I've been down on these experts, 

Like him as has been here with you ; 
He corned like the rest do from 'Frisco, 

An' hark ye— condemned Cariboo. 
Now, pards, I's an old veteran miner, 

My ha'rs have grown gray in the biz, 
Don't go a cent on this expert, 

My 'pinion '11 stand agin his. 



MY OWN MOUNTAIN TREE. 
Written on the back of a photograph, under a palm tree, in Los Angeles, 

California. . 

Under a palm tree reclining, 

Away from the turmoil and strife, 
The sun in his glory is shining — 

All nature seems grafted with life ; 
The birds sing as sweetly above me, 

So happy are they in their glee ; 
But give me the dear friends who love me, 

And birds on my own mountain tree. 



148 THE POET SCOUT. 



MOTHER'S PRAYERS. 

In the dreary hours of midnight, 

When the camp's asleep and still, 
Not a sound, save rippling streamlets. 

Or the voice of the whippoorwill. 
Then I think of dear, loved faces, 

As I steal around my beat — 
Think of other scenes and places, 

And a mother's voice so sweet. 

Mother, who, in days of childhood, 

Prayed as only mothers pray : 
Guard his footsteps in the wild wood, 

Let him not be led astray ; 
And when dangers hovered o'er me, 

When my life was full of cares, 
Then a sweet form passed before me. 

And I thought of mother's prayers. 

Mother's prayers ! Ah ! sacred memory, 

I can hear her sweet voice now, 
As, upon her death-bed lying, 

With her hand upon my brow, 
Calling on a Saviour's blessing, 

Ere she climbed the Golden Stairs. 
There's a sting in all transgressing, 

When I think of mother's prayers. 

And I made her one dear promise — 

Thank the Lord, I've kept it, too ; 
Yes, I promised God and mother 

To the pledge I would be true. 
Though a hundred times the tempter 

Every day throws out his snares, 
I can boldly answer, "No, sir ! " 

When I think of mother's prayers. 



150 THE POET SCOUT. 

And while here, I tell the story 

Why my boyhood's days were sad ; 
Is there not some one before me 

Who will make a mother glad? 
Swell her heart with fond emotion — 

Drive away life's bitter cares ; 
Sign and keep the pledge for mother — 

Heed thy mother's earnest prayers. 

There is no one on the prairie 

Who must say it more than I — 
No — I never drink. I thank you, 

1 can never take your rye ; 
And there's not in many hundreds 

Not a man who ever dares 
Ask me drink when I have told him 

How I thought of mother's prayers. 

Oh, my brother, do not drink it, 

Think of all your mother said ; 
While upon her death-bed laying, 

Or perhaps she is not dead ; 
Don't you kill her, then, I pray you, 

She has got enough of cares. 
Sign the pledge, and God will help you, 

H you think of mother' s prayers. 



"COKPOKAL BILL." 

A camp in the mountains. The pine-knot fire 
Drove the gloomy shadows up higher and higher, 
Till trees, and rocks, and the purling stream, 
And the sun-tanned faces were all agleam 
With the ruddy glow of the dancing light, 
That shone like a gem in a setting of night. 
Around the fire sat a picturesque group — 
A small detail from a cavalry troop : 



"corporal bill." 151 

Bronzed old soldiers, who knew no fear, 

Who had served as vets on that wild frontier ; 

Who were used to the fray and the night alarms 

From painted demons, who came in swarms. 

Near by their horses were cropping the grass 

That grew up wild in the mountain pass, 

And near to the saddle-pillowed head 

Of each grass-cushioned, blanketed bed 

Lay carbines and pistols, near at hand, 

In easy reach of the scouting band, 

If the picket, who up on a cliff laid low, 

Should give the alarm of a coming foe. 

Around the camp fire the warrior throng 

Enlivened the hours with story and song, 

And merry laughter, borne out on the breeze, 

Went rippling, echoing up through the trees. 

Hark ! The sound of a horse's hoofs were heard 

Coming up the gulch like a fleeting bird, 

And the soldiers grasped their arms, and stood 

With eager eyes peering into the wood. 

From the sombre shadows came dashing out 

A steaming horse and a buckskinned scout. 

A scout from the fort ! The blue-clad men 

Laid down their trusty rifles again, 

And stood and waited with eager ear 

The news from the busy world to hear. 

The scout dismounted, and, bowing his head, 

But four words whispered — "Boys, Grant is dead !" 

There wei-e trembling lips and pain-marked eyes, 

And tears, and mutterings of surprise, 

But not a word was spoken until, 

In a trembling voice, old Corporal Bill 

Cried out, "Jack, boy, don't say it is true ! 

Don't say it is taps — it may be tattoo ! 

Maybe he is waiting for orders to go — 

But tell us —oh, tell us it is not so ! 

Grant dead ! Oh, no — come, come, old Jack, 

Jes' say it's a joke, an' take it back ! 



152 THE POET SCOUT. 

Yes, please do, comrade -jes' crack a smile, 

An' tell us you've galloped many a mile 

To have a little fun with the boys, 

An' check fur a while their camp-fire joys ; 

Do this, ol' pard, an' we'll laugh an' sing 

Till the echo comes back with a merry, ring ! 

Too true? Ah ! yes ; I know by yer look 

It's as true as the word in the holy book, 

An' it cuts my heart like a knife ! Why, men, 

I've fought under Grant again an' again ; 

My ol' commander, back in the days 

When the South with the flames o' war was ablaze. 

I've followed him over many a field 

Whar smoke-blackened columns quivered an' reeled 

With the dreadful shock of an iron hail 

That would make the face of the stoutest pale ! 

I have followed him through the lead-blazed wood 

Whar the leaves war speckled with hero blood, 

An' out over many a battle plain 

Whar the ground war heaped with the warriors slain, 

An' the piercin' rays o' the sun war broke 

An' held in check by the clouds o' smoke 

That poured from many an iron throat, 

An' hung overhead, an' seemed to gloat, 

Like black-faced demons, from realms of woe, 

O'er the fearful carnage an' death below ! 

The upturned faces, in death so pale ! 

The dreadful song o' the leaden hail ! 

The quivering, mutilated flesh ! 

The piercin' yells o' the mad secesh ! 

The shriekin', howlin', screamin' shell ! 

Why, men, it must 'a-looked like hell, 

With a million devils, in impish glee, 

Turned loose on a holiday jamboree ! 

An' right on the field, ridin' here an' there, 

His horse a-sweatin' from every hair, 

Rode Grant, as cool as a drippin' spring, 

His keen eye watchin' the front an' wing, 



THE VETERAN AND HIS GRANDSON. 153 

A cigar half smoked in his teeth, his face 
Bearin' stern resolution in every trace. 
Wharever he rode the men would cheer, 
Fur it nerved 'em to feel that he war near, 
Fur they all knowed Grant, an' loved him, too, 
An' the general loved his boys in blue. 
An' now he is dead ! The grand ol' chief 
Has resigned his post to the last relief, 
An' it chokes me up fur to think that he 
Should be taken, an' such ol' cusses as me 
Are left, sort o' useless, here below, 
In the land that loved the general so, 
Well, pards, it war God as took him away — 
He musters the blue an' He musters the gray — 
Ad' I reckon He needed that warrior grim 
To serve as aid on the staff with Him — 
An', comrades, who knows, in that better land, 
But God may give him his old command ? 



THE VETERAN AND HIS GRANDSON. 

Dedicated to Corporal James Tanner. 

Hold on ! Hold on ! My goodness, you take my breath, my son,. 

A-firin' questions at me, like shots from a Gatlin' gun — 

Why do I wear this eagle an' flag an' brazen star. 

An' why do my old eyes glisten when somebody mentions war? 

An' why do I call men " comrade," an' why do my eyes grow bright, 

When you hear me tell your grandma I'm goin' to post to-night? 

Come here, you inquisitive rascal, an' set on your grandpa's knee. 

An' I'll try an' answer the broadsides you've been a-firin' at me. 

Away back there in the sixties, and long afore you were born, 
The news come a-flashin' to us, one bright an' sunny morn, 



154 THE POET SCOUT. 

That some of our Southern brothers, a-thinkin', no doubt, 'twar right, 
Had trailed their guns on our banner, an' opened a nasty tight. 
The great big guns war a-boomin', an' the shot flyin' thick and fast, 
An' troops all over the southland war rapidly bein' massed, 
An' a thrill went through the nation, a fear that our glorious land 
Might be split an' divided an' ruined by mistaken brothers' hand. 

Lord ! but wa'n't there excitement, an' didn't the boys' eyes flash ? 
An' didn't we curse our brothers fur bein' so foolish an' rash ? 
An' didn't we raise the neighbors with loud an' continued cheers, 
When Abe sent out a dockyment a-callin' fur volunteers? 
An' didn't we flock to the colors when the drums began to beat, 
An' didn't we march with proud step along this village street '? 
An' didn't the people cheer us when we got aboard the cars, 
With the flag a-wavin' o"er us, and went away to the wars ? 

I'll never forgit your grandma as she stood outside o' the train, 

Her face as white as a snowdrift, her tears a-fallin' like rain — 

She stood there cpiiet an' deathlike, 'mid all o' the rush an' noise, 

Fur the war war a takin' from her her husband an' three brave boys — 

Bill, Charley, and little Tommy- -just turned eighteen, but as true 

An' gallant a little soldier as ever wore the blue. 

It seemed almost like murder for to tear her poor heart so, 

But your granddad couldn't stay, baby, an' the boys war determined to go. 

The evenin' afore we started she called the boys to her side, 

An' told 'em as how they war always their mother's joy an' pride, 

An' though her soul was in torture, an' her poor heart bleedin' an' sore, 

An' though she needed her darliDgs, their country needed 'em more. 

She told 'em to do their duty wherever their feet might roam, 

An' to never forgit in battle their mother war prayin' at home, 

An' if (an' the tears nigh choked her) they should fall in front o' the foe, 

She'd go to her blessed Saviour an' ax Him to lighten the blow. 

Bill lays an' awaits the summons 'neath Spottsylvania's sod. 
An' on the field of Antietam Charley's spirit went back to God ; 
An' Tommy, our baby Tommy, we buried one starlit night 
Along with his fallen comrades, just after the Wilderness fight. 
The lightnin' struck our family tree, an' stripped it of every limb, 
A-leavin' only this bare old trunk, a-standin' alone an' grim. 



THE VETERAN AND HIS GRANDSON. 155 

My boy, that's why your grandma, when yon kneel to the God you love, 
Makes you ax Him to watch your uncles, an' make 'em happy above. 

That's why you sometimes see her with tear-drops in her eyes ; 

That's wh\ r you sometimes catch her a-tryin' to hide her sighs ; 

That's why at our great reunions she looks so solemn an' sad ; 

That's why her heart seems a-breakin' when the boys are so jolly an' glad ; 

That's why you sometimes find her in the bedroom overhead, 

Down on her knees a-prayin', with their pictures laid out on the bed ; 

That's why the old-time brightness will light up her face no more, 

Till she meets her hero warriors in the camp on the other shore. 

An' when the great war was over, back came the veterans true, 

With not one star a-missin' from that azure field of blue ; 

An' the boys who on field o' battle had stood the fiery test 

Formed posts o' the great Grand Army in the North, South, East, an' the 

West. 
Fraternity, Charity, Loyalty, is the motto 'neath which they train — 
Their object to care for the helpless, an' banish sorrow an' pain 
From the homes o' the widows an' orphans o' the boys who have gone 

before, 
To answer their names at roll-call in that great Grand Army Corps. 

An' that's why we wear these badges, the eagle an' flag an' star, 
Worn only by veteran heroes who fought in that bloody war ; 
An' that's why my old eyes glisten while talkin' about the fray, 
An' that's why I call men "comrade ' ' when I meet 'em every day ; 
An' that's why I tell your grandma, "I'm goin' to post to-night," 
For there's where I meet the old boys who stood with me in the fight, 
And, my child, that's why I've taught you to love an' revere the men 
Who come here a-wearin' badges to fight those battles again. 

They are the gallant heroes who stood 'mid the shot an' shell, 

An' follered the flyin' colors right into the mouth o' hell — 

They are the men whose valor saved the land from disgrace an' shame, 

An' lifted her back in triumph to her perch on the dome o' fame ; 

An' as long as you live, my darling, till your pale lips in death are mute, 

When you see that badge on a bosom, take off your hat an' salute ; 

An' if any ol' vet should halt you, an' question why you do, 

Just tell him you've got a right to, fur your granddad's a comrade too. 



156 THE POET SCOUT. 



LILLIE. 

" Last evening, at the Bush Street Theatre, a beautiful incident occuired, not 
down on the bills, however, yet which was highly appreciated by the large 
audience present. It is well known that Captain Jack Crawford, the hardy 
mountaineer, scout, poet, and actor, has an especial predilection for children, and 
he is in the zenith of his joy when he has a bevy of them around him, spinning 
his extravagant stories, and otherwise amusing them. Last evening the capta'n 
was sitting in the orchpstra circle, when he was espied by a four-year-old flaxen- 
haired beauty across the theatre. Quick as thought she left her mother's, side 
ran clear around the circle, and without the sligh'est ceremony seated herself 
on the captain's lap, not only to his surprise, but, from appearances, to his 
delight, for he entertained the little -waif' the balance of the evening. The 
incident was a very pleasing one." — San Francisco Footlight. 

She left her loving mother's side 

And climbed upon my knee — 
A lovely little blue-eyed child, 

Who spoke her love for me. 
I gazed upon the throng around, 

On fashion's daughters fair. 
But not one tress in all. that throng 

Could match sweet Lillie's hair. 

God bless her ! Just a little while 

I held her to my breast ; 
Forgetting all life's cares at once, 

I waited her request. 
And then in whispers soft and low, 

And pointing over there, 
Said she, " My mamma told me once 

That oou had till'd a bear." 

I never saw the play — not I 

Indeed— I did not care, 
For I was happy spinning yarns 

For little golden-hair ; 
And how her little blue eyes shone 

Each time a story ended, 
And how she almost shouted out, 

" Oh my, but dat was sp'endid !" 



MY BIRTHDAY. 157 

" Oh, dear ! and must we really do ? 

I wish it wasn't out ; 
I feel so very doocl, 

I wish dat I tood shout." 
Sweet angel ! you have brougnt me joy, 

And filled me with delight ; 
May angels guard you all through life — 

God bless you, child, good-night ! 



MY BIRTHDAY. 

My birthday ! yet 'twas accidental 

That I found it came to-day ; 
Lonely in my cabin musing, 

How the time does pass away — 
Not a soul to wish me gladness, 

Not a friend to pull my ears ; 
While my heart is filled with sadness, 

Thinking of the passing years. 

Once I had an angel mother — 

How she used to bring me joy ! 
Birthdays one upon the other, 

I was still her favorite boy. 
But the angels took her from me — 

Dead and gone these many years — 
She who was my guardian angel 

In this thorny vale of tears. 

How she used to pray, " God bless him !' 

While the tear-drops filled her eyes, 
With a mother's tender pleading, 

Looking upward toward the skies. 
Oh, my mother ! if thy spirit 

Hovers near me while alone, 
Bless once more thy wayward offspring 

In this little cabin home. 
In the Mountains, Cariboo, March 4. 



158 



THE POET SCOUT. 




(Taken from " Tic Tacs," by permission of Homer Lee Bank-Note Co.) 



LITTLE EEVILEE. 

I hain't much love fur an Injun, 

Take Injuns as they go, 
An' for many a year on this wild frontier, 

I've been their bitterest foe ; 
An' I reckon as you uns know me, 

An' I ain't much given to boast, 
But listen to me— I wouldn't be 

Unjust to an Injun's ghost. 

So jest let up on that redskin, 

At least fur a minute or two, 
An' I'll tell you why he ain't goin' to die, 

If you b'lieve w'at I say is true. 



LITTLE REVILEE. 159 

Let me attend to his talkin', 

Fur you see he is off 'n the track, 
An' I'll try to tell how he went through hell, 

With me but a kid on his back. 

Make no mistake ; I know him, 

But I reckon he don't know me — 
Leastwise he don't know I'm little Joe, 

As they called Little Revilee ; 
But, pards, can't you all remember, 

When only a little kid, 
Some kind word said by a friend now dead, 

That remains in your heart deep hid ? 

Wal, so it was with Scar Face — 

That ugly one-eyed red, 
An' you all kin bet I won't forget 

Till gratitude is dead. 
That uncouth face was handsome 

That morn in Fifty-three, 
When mother lay dead an' father had fled 

From his Little Bevilee. 

They had sent me fur ammunition, 

Just after the reds had strack — 
'Twas a desperate trip, but I had to skip — 

Fur a kid I had lots o' pluck ; 
An' I lost no time iu reachin' 

The camp, ten miles away. 
But when I got back to our little shack 

I had a lone hand to play. 

Thar' lay my father an' mother, 

An' as over their bodies I stood 
An' Injun came an' called me his game, 

But I made him w'at we calls good. 
Then a dozen more came on me, 

An' with mother's head on my knee, 
I fired my last shot — then all was a blot 

To Little Eevilee. 



160 THE POET SCOUT. 

When I cum to myself an Injun 

War batbin' my achin' head, 
While all around, piled up on the ground, 

Laid the hostiles thick an' dead, 
While the one with me war a-bleedin', 

His face hacked up with knives — 
In the dreadful strife he had saved my life 

At the cost o' a dozen lives. 

Now, I hain't much love fur an Injun, 

Take Injuns as they go ; 
But angels fell to a place called hell, 

An' thar's angels here below. 
An' look ye, boys, that's the Injun 

As kept the red niggers from me, 
An' you hear me toot, if he hangs I shoot, 

Fur I'm still Little Eevilee. 

You hain't got nuthin' agin him 

But prowlin' around the camp, 
So you all made a lope for a lariat rope 

To hang him right up for a scarnp. 
But I say he's goin' to travel 

Safe out o' this chapparel, 
An' the very fust one makes a play with a gun, 

Will land in a minute in hell. 



DECOKATION DAY. 

Comrades, our nation is thinking to-day 
Of her glorious salvation, and counting the cost 

Of the men who are sleeping beneath the cold clay — ■ 
The noble, the gallant, and brave that we lost— 

That we lost ! Yet how fondly we cherish their names- 
How eager to tell of the deeds they have done, 

Their actions so brave, that their glory and fame 
Are pictured and told in the battles they won ! 



DECORATION DAY. 161 

Let our nation rejoice, then, 'raid sorrow to-day — 

Let our hearts beat with love for the flag of the free ; 
While the widows and orphans are kneeling to pray, 

Great God of the Universe, humbly to Thee, 
And we who have safely returned from the fight, 

Would ask Thee, most humbly, dear Father, again 
To watch o'er our actions, that we, by Thy might, 

May show that our comrades have not died in vain. 

Dear comrades, the widow has come ; stand aside — 
Let her kneel by the tomb, unresponsive forever, 
Where moulders the arm of the true and the tried : 

Her guard and protector, till war bid them sever. 
Stand aside, boys, she comes, as she's come all these years, 
With a wreath, lovely wreath, all bespangled with tears, 
And a prayer, Heavenly Father, when this life is done, 
Reunite us in heaven with loved Washington. 

The orphan has come, boys ; let him have a place 
To look at the orator straight in the face, 
To listen once more, hear recounted the story, 
For his sire was a soldier, and shared in the glory ; 
And he, too, has vowed, on each thirtieth of May, 
His love for our Union ; God bless him ! we say. 

The patriot is here and the statesman has come, 

The actor, the student, yea, every one ; 

The dwellers in palace, and hovel so plain — 

All — all have done honor to the slain. 

Let the blossoms of May bow their heads o'er each grave, 

And breathe balms of sweetness all over the brave, 

And lilies, pure lilies, with roses so red, 

Be strewn with a wreath on the graves of the dead ; 

While tears of the widows and orphans like dew 

Are mingled with flow' rets of red, white, and blue. 

And now as these heroes lie sleeping beneath 

The Stars and the Stripes, the flowers and the wreath, 



162 THE POET SCOUT. 

We think of the trenches dug after the tight, 
When wrapt in their blankets at dead of the night, 
We buried in hundreds, yea, thousands, the brave, 
Embracing each other ; no mark o'er their grave, 
Save that simple inscription, one word alone, 
You read it with awe, and pronounce it " Unknown." 
And to-day of the four hundred thousand who fell, 
The wife, and the mother, and sister, will tell, 
Oh, how generous, how loyal, how noble and true, 
They died for our Union, for me and for you ! 

Our Union still lives. They have not died in vain, 

And to-day we've adorned their graves once again ; 

But those flowers, and the hands that have strewn them to-day, 

In death will soon languish, and all pass away. 

And these monuments, too, so majestic and grand, 

Will crumble to dust. Yet our Union will stand — 

And that is their monument, ours, too, as well, 

Who fought by the side of the noble who fell ; 

Who suffered in cabin, in camp, and in field, 

And swore by yon flag that we never would yield 

Till that flag, lovely flag, dearest flag of the free, 

Should float, boys, in triumph, for you and for me. 

And here as we gather to-day 'neath its stars, 
And look upon comrades with crutches and scars, 
And sleeves, empty sleeves, hanging loose by their side, 
The boys who survived 'mid the thousands who died — 
And yet do they murmur ? No, no ! nor complain. 
"Each maD owes a part," say the wounded and maim, 
" And we have but acted our part in the strife, 
And gave but a limb, while the dead gave their life. " 
Oh, comrades, how hallowed the ground where they sleep — 
Where the widows and orphans are kneeling to weep 
O'er the brave who have fallen in skirmish and fight, 
Protecting that flag and the cause that was right ! 

And yet we have still a great duty to do — 
Work on, loyal hearts, until death's last tattoo 



OUR MARTYRED DEAD. 163 

Shall lull us to rest 'neath the flag of the free, 

Till awakened by angels, a sweet reveille, 

From the boys who have gone, and whose marching is o'er, 

They are watching on picket, on Canaan's bright shore. 



OUR MARTYRED DEAD. 

GENEEALB. D. BAKES. 

The following poem was read by me at the tomb of General E. D. Baker, on 
Decoration Day, 1879. The three first verses are mine; those following by 
M. P. Griffis, General E. D. Baker Post, Philadelphia. 

Soldiees, comrades, gather round me, 

List the story I will tell 
Of a noble, gallant soldier — 

One who loved our flag so well. 
Here he sleeps beneath the daisies, 

Here, beneath the mossy sod, 
Near the broad Pacific' s murmur, 
' He is mouldering with the clod. 

Oh, how brave — methinks I see him 

Charging — leading, sword in hand, 
With the courage of our Custer, 

At the head of his command. 
Onward ! upward ! rally ! comrades, 

See ! the rebels giving way ! 
Ah ! Ball's Bluff, you had a martyr 

When our Baker fell that day. 

While we gather round his ashes, 

Comrades far beyond the plain 
Send a tribute to his mem' ry 

From the Post that bears his name. 
Baker Post, in Philadelphia — 

Boys who joined him in the fray — 
Bade me tell you how they loved him, 

And I speak for them to-day. 



164 THE POET SCOUT. 



IN MEMOKIAM. 

Eighteen years have passed, dear comrades, 

Since the man whose name we bear 
Bade farewell to rank and station, 

But a soldier's lot to share — 
Onward marching with the army — 

Onward fighting for the free — 
By a pure and holy purpose 

He was guided to the sea. 

Oh, my comrades, over yonder, 

In the far Pacific State, 
Sleeps our brave commander, Baker, 

Close beside the Golden Gate. 
Heaven's dew will wet the laurels, 

Comrades' hands will strew sweet flowers, 
Some brave boy will read this tribute 

O'er that martyred brave of ours. 

Tell the friends who gather round you 

How he fought to gain the day ; 
How, when cruel death had marked him, 

Faint and bleeding in the fray. 
Tell them, comrades, how, when dying, 

" Charge !" he said : " Boys, take the hill ! 
Yes, thank God ! I see it waving ! 

See ! our flag is floating still !" 

Thus he died a gallant hero, 

Soldier, statesman — none more grand. 
Strew his grave with sweetest flowers. 

Comrades of the sunny land. 
And when death has claimed our army, 

When life's pilgrimage is o'er, 
May we meet our martyred Baker, 

Now at peace for evermore. 



OFF TO THE PICNIC. 165 

OFF TO THE PICNIC. 

To ye Sons o' Caledonia. 

Awa' , ye brawny sons o' Scotland ! 

Up the banks and doon the braes, 
Through the Hielands o' Nevada, 

Sing yo'r songs o' ither days ; 
Yet it's no rich gowrey's valley, 

Nor the Forth' s dear sunny side ; 
Nor the wild and mossy mountain, 

Father of the placid Clyde. 

Yet just for the while imagine 

Ye are back on Scotia's shore, 
'Mang the braes and grouse and heather 

Where the Highland waters roar ; 
'Mang the groves o' sweetest myrtle, 

Or- perhaps aside the Doon, 
Thinking o' young Bobbie' s courtship 

By the light o' bonnie moon. 

Noble, brave, unselfish poet ! 

Don't forget him 'mid yo'r joys ; 
Fill and drink to him a bumper — 

He was nature's bard, my boys. 
One o' Scotland's noblest freemen, 

Spurning lords and lairds and crown ! 
Here's to Scotia's bard and poet — 

Bobbie Burns — boys, drink her down. 

Up in Heaven wi' Highland Mary, 

Burns now sings a sweeter song ; 
He is wearing brighter laurels 

Than the men who did him wrong. 
" Scots wha hae," methinks I hear it — 

" Bonnie Doon," ah ! how sublime ; 
At yo'r picnic drink this bumper — 

" Bobbie Burns and Auld Lang Syne !" 
Gold Hill, Nev. 



166 THE POET SCOUT. 



CATO'S IDEAS 

ON THE NEW CHURCH DOCTRINE. 

I went to church last Sunday, 

"Which I allers want to do, 
To hea' dat same old story, 

But I hea' ub sumfin new ; 
An', wife, old Deacon Johnson, 

Who allers preached so well, 
Come out an' tol' us darkeys 

Dar wasn't any hell. 

Wharfor' he tol' dat story 

Is sumfin I don't know, 
Ease if dar ain't no debil, 

Whar will dem wicked go ? 
Ease 'tain't no use in preachin' 

If Adam nebber fell, 
An' 'tain't no use in prayin' 

If cussin' does as well. 

Now, dis chile ain't no angel, 

But j ou hea' Cato talk — 
Dar's sumfin gwine to happen 

If 'gainst de Lord we balk ; 
Ease if der was no 'Mighty, 

Dat sun he nebber shine, 
An' you jest bet sich preachin' 

Ain't gwine to win dis time. 

I can't jest understan' it, 

Ease jest two weeks ago 
He tol' us how ole Satan 

Was roamin' to an' fro ; 
An' now dar ain't no debil, 

An' no sich place of fire ; 
Dis chile don't take no chances— 

I' s gwine to clim' up higher. 



MY HERO. 107 



MY HERO. 



My Hero ! The wealth of the world could not purchase the noble fel- 
low. He is a grand specimen of the Albino St. Bernard, white as the 
driven snow, with large hazel eyes that beam with almost human intel- 
ligence, and he weighs one hundred and forty-seven pounds. But for 
his love and devotion my body would to-day be buried in the treacher- 
ous quicksand over which the Rio Grande flows on its ceaseless journey 
to the sea. Captain S. C. Plummer, of the regular army, witnessed my 
rescue by my noble Hero, and telegraphed the following account of it to 
the Denver Tribune : 

"Last Monday a number of soldiers went from Port Craig to the Rio Grande 
for a bath. Among them was Captain Jack Crawford. After being in the water 
about three quarters of an hour Captain Jack s'arted to cross toward the other 
side over a sand-bar, on which the water was only from six inches to a foot deep. 
Several of the others followed Jack, and they had considerable fun, tripping each 
other and rolling over in the water, while two of the boys got Jack down in the 
shallow water and tickled him in the ribs until he was nearly exhausted with 
laughter, he being very ticklish. In order to get away from his tormentors, Jack 
rolled over toward the deep water at the edge of the bar, and when he got upon 
bis feet he kept backing down strer m, and although there was not over two 
feet of water where he stood, yet the current was so strong that it would carry 
him down should he lose his footing. He kept splashing water on those who 
had been tickling him, and bantering them to come on after him, when suddenly 
he made two or three desperate efforts to get back, but failed. Ye,t he said not 
a word, or the others might have joined hands and reached him. No one dreamed 
for a moment that he was trying to extricate himself from the quicksand. All 
at once he went down like a piece of lead. Even then we thought he had taken 
a dive, until he was under water longer than a man would willingly stay, and, 
indeed, no one would have noticed this particularly, had we not heard a peculiar 
pound, more like the roar of a lion than anything else, and the next instant 
Jack's dog Hero, a beautiful St. Bernard, was seen swimming toward his master, 
while he set up a howl that seemed to say, ' I'm coming.' Jack came up about 
twenty-five yards below where he went down, and right in the centre of a terribly 
swift current, near where the river would make a quick, sharp turn. He was 
nearly exhausted when the sand broke from under him, and, striking a whirl- 
pool, he could make little or no headway, and had to use all his strength to keep 
from being caught in the suction. Hill, a soldier, orderly for General Hatch, 



168 THE POET SCOUT. 

soon as he saw the dog go for Jack, also sprang in the current, but Hero got to 
Jack first, just as he was going down a second time, and taking him by the hair 
(if the head, brought him above water. Jack, who never lost his presence of 
mind, caught the dog by the back, just above the hip, and the faithful Hero 
brought him safe to shore, nearly a mile below where he first went down. This 
was really a narrow escape, as an officer and five soldiers went down nearly in 
the same place a few years ago, and were never seen. A wagon and team of 
mules disappeared in the river a year ago, and have not turned up yet." 

Can you wonder that I love my dog — my noble, faithful Hero ? Can 
you wonder that I hold him above all price — that the riches of the world 
could not induce me to part with him ? But a few months since a New 
York millionaire was at my ranch at Fort Craig, New Mexico, and asked 
me to fix a price on the dog, and in response I wrote for him the follow- 
ing poem : 

HERO. 
To my Friend H. K. 

What'll I take fur that handsome dorg? 

Wal, mister, how much are you worth ? 
A million ! Ge whiz ! That's a heap o' scads. 

Wal, I ain't got a dollar on airth, 
An' I reckon as how ye'll believe me, pard, 

"When I tell you I never struck ile ; 
But Hero's a great big bonanza to me, 

An' he couldn't be bought fur yer pile. 

Wal, no, he's never been trained, 'cause you see 

He's a kind of a self-made dog, 
An' even when only a bit of a purp 

He wouldn't be seen with a hog. 
An' he jest grow'd up with our blue-eyed May, 

An' they sported out thar on the lee, 
An' one day I found 'hat the noble ol' boy 

Had a load of affection fur me. 

An' you'd like the story? Wal, 'tain't very long — 

Jest look at them big, honest eyes ; 
He knows as how I'm talkin' 'bout him, 

An' that's why he's lookin' so wise, 



170 THE POET SCOUT. 

'Causs he knows purty much every word as I say — 
He's corralled as much sense as some men — 

An', pard, if I hadn't a squar meal on earth, 
He wouldn't go back on me then. 

No, friendship like that you don't see every day — 

It's as pure as the daisies that grow ; 
My Hero has no selfish motives, except 

He expects all the love I bestow ; 
An' if through misfortune the wolf hangs around, 

Or if sickness should knock at my door, 
You can bet yer whole pile he will stay at my side, 

Fur he's faithful an' true to the core. 

But why do I love him? Wal, now, let me see — 

It war just about five year ago, 
I war caught in an eddy — the old Rio Grande, 

If she clutches you, ha*es to let go. 
Wal, Hero jest lay on the bank over thar, 

An' when others war deaf to my call 
My Hero cum to me, an' why I'm alive 

Is jest 'cause he saved me, that's all. 

An' I reckon as how you will pardon me, sir, 

If I tell you that gold cannot buy 
The friend as has proved himself loyal to me, 

Since I've told you the wherefore an' why; 
Fur even a dog has a heart, don't ye know, 

An' sometimes it's loyal an' true ; 
An' somehow I think, when I look in his eyes, 

As thar' must be a dog-heaven, too. 

When I return to my home Hero will be the first to bound down the 
Rio Grande hill to meet and welcome me with a joyful bark — a bark 
that will notify the loved ones up in the ranch that I am again at home. 
His noble white head will be the first to receive my caresses after my 
absence, and his will be the first lovelit eyes to look into mine with 
touching eloquence. He will lead me with joyful bounds up the hill to 
wife and children — up to the door of my humble but cherished home on 
the banks of the old Rio Grande. 



THE GRAVE OF MY MOTHER. 171 



THE GRAVE OF MY MOTHER. 



To Mrs. Emily Pitt Stevens, San Francisco. 

There's a green grassy mound in the valley I love, 
Where angels their vigils are keeping ; 

The pine trees are singing a dirge far above, 
The sky pearly tear drops is weeping, 

And cooing on high is a bright turtle dove 
O'er the grave where my mother is sleeping. 

Chorus. 

Peacefully sleeping, she sleeps 'neath the clay, 
This world cannot give me another ; 

No one to guide me, and no one to pray, 
While I weep o'er the grave of my mother. 

The dew-drops are falling, the evening is here, 
And o'er me night's shadows are stealing ; 

All nature is silent, good angels are near, 
And hushed is the harvester's reaping, 

While fondly I linger 'mid memories dear, 
Near the grave where my mother is sleeping. 

Chorus. 

Oh, here let me linger in silence and bliss, 

While only the starlets are peeping, 
And mix with the dewdrops a tear and a kiss, 

O'er the grave where my mother is sleeping ; 
For no spot on earth is so sacred as this — 

This spot where my dear mother's sleeping. 

Chorus. 



172 THE POET SCOUT. 



NOKA LEE. 



I have watched the roses blooming 

And the violets' lovely hue, 
And daisies like the starlight 

As they sparkled with the dew ; 
I have looked xvpon the lilies 

And the flowers of every tree, 
But none were half so pretty 

As my blue-eyed Nora Lee. 

Chorus. 

She is sweeter than the violets, 

She is fairer than the rose ; 
Her eyes are soft and tender, 

And her cheek with beauty glows. 
Oh, I never can forget her, 

Though she never thinks of me ; 
I love that blue-eyed beauty — 

Little darling, Nora Lee. 

To my prairie home I'm going, 

With my comrades brave and free, 
And yet where'er I wander 

Those blue eyes will follow me. 
I shall see them in the camp fire, 

They will sparkle in the dell, 
And in the rippling streamlets 

I shall hear that last farewell. 

Chorus. 

God bless you, Jack ! God bless you ! 

Were the words she whispered low ; 
I thought 'twas heavenly music 

From her throat as white as snow. 



OUR FIEST REUNION AND CAMP-FIRE. 173 

And my heart beat in a tremor, 

So she spake kind words to me. 
I wish I did not love her — 

Darling, blue-eyed Nora Lee. 

Chorus. 

I have gazed upon the streamlets 

When the moon was shining bright, 
The rippling of the waters 

In the summer noon of night. 
I have looked on nature's grandeur, 

On the prairie, land, and sea, 
But none of them could charm me 

Like the voice of Nora Lee. 



Chorus. 



Oh, no matter where I wander, 
Her sweet image will be there 

Her blue eyes shine upon me, 
And her voice be everywhere. 

And though I pine in sorrow, 
She is all the world to me ; 

May angels guard my fairy- 
Darling, blue-eyed Nora Lee ! 



Chorus. 



OUR FIRST REUNION AND CAMP-FIRE. 

Respectfully dedicated to F. B. Gowan, brother of my brave colonel, who fell 
while leadiDg us in stormiDg the rebel post at Petersburg, April 2d, 1865. 

With love— which time can never change 

We grasp each other's hands, 
And think of battles fought and won— 

Of Burnside's stern commands ; 
Bright memories of the hallowed past 

Are stealing through our souls, 
While thinking of the noble dead 

Now mustered from our rolls. 



174 THE POET SCOUT. 

At times our hearts would almost bleed, 

And angels seemed to frown ; 
But God was on the ramparts, boys, 

"While the mortars tumbled down ; 
And though at times a boy was hit 

With a fragment of a shell, 
We stood it — did we not, comrades ? 

In the rainparts of Fort Hell. 

And when we went on jncket, 

With our blankets on our arm, 
And each a stick of wood, comrades, 

To try and keep us warm ; 
How oft we thought of happy homes, 

Of friends and parents, too, 
And lovely little blue-eyed girls 

Who'd die for me and you ! 

And often, when we shouted 

Across to Johnny Eeb, 
To throw us some tobacco, 

And we would throw them bread, 
How quickly they responded ! 

And the plugs came thick and fast, 
And we shared them with each other — 

And shared them to the last. 

But though they gave tobacco, 

And though we gave them bread, 
Between the lines we soon must see 

The dying and the dead ! 
And though Mahone defied us, 

And though her strength was great, 
Who would dare to charge them, boys, 

If not our Forty-eight ? 

And when our greatest generals 

Defied our boys alone, 
To charge the enemy in front 

And capture Fort Mahone — 



OUR FIRST REUNION AND CAMP-FIRE. 175 

Oh, can you e'er forget it, boys ? 

The answer Gowan sent : 
" We'll take it, with the help of God, 

Or die in the attempt !" 

And nobly on that fatal day 

He led us on so well, 
Till fairly on their ramparts, boys, 

Our noble colonel fell. 
And did you mark the change, comrades ? 

Where was the leader now 
Who dared to lead us on like he 

Who fell with shattered brow ? 

I need not speak of others' deeds 

Who led us on before — 
Of Nagle and of Siegfried, too, 

Brave Pleasants and Gilmore. 
Oh, no ! their names are written 

On a grateful nation's shrine, 
And nothing can erase them, boys, 

Until the end of time. 

Another word — each comrade's heart 

Is filled with gratitude 
To Siegfried, Pleasants, Bosbyshell, 

Who were so kind and good 
To offer us a banquet, boys, 

Such as we never saw — 
Much better than the hard-tack, boys — 

Hurrah ! then, boys, hurrah ! 

But don't forget, another year 

Will soon pass o'er our head, 
And then we hope to meet again — 

If living ; but, if dead, 
May we not meet in heaven, boys, 

And see upon the shore 
A picket guard of angels 

With Gowan and Gilmore ? 



176 THE POET SCOUT. 



THE BANGERS' RETREAT. 



'Tis a clear little spot in the valley I love, 

And the pine trees are waving above it ; 
The home of the lark, the blackbird and dove — 

I never can tell how I love it. 
I've roamed through its grandeur with rifle in hand, 

O'er beautiful streamlets and fountains ; 
From Calamity Bar the scene was most grand, 

With its moss-covered rocks and its mountains. 

Chorus. 
'Tis cosy, 'tis cheerful, that moss-covered dell — 
That dear little Eden where I used to dwell ; 
The flowers when in bloom cast a fragrance so sweet 
Through that dear little valley, the Rangers' Retreat. 

Oh, 'tis speckled with daisies and covered with dew ; 

There's no spot so dear as that valley, 
Where brothers met brotners, the brave and the true, 

And in danger 'round each other rally. 
The deer and the antelope roam in the dell, 

The mocking bird sings in the bushes, 
While under the daisies the jack-rabbits dwell, 

And the water-snipe hides in the rushes. 

Chorus. 

And, though I'm far from that valley to-day, 

The scenes are all pictured before me : 
The deer are at water, the birds are at play, 

And the skylarks are all singing o'er me. 
I think I can see my dear comrades of old, 

The sound of each rifle seems ringing ; 
The echo comes back from that valley of gold, 

While the boys round the camp-fires are singing. 

Chorus. 



THE POOR MAN'S SOLILOQUY. 177 

THE POOR MAN'S SOLILOQUY. 

AETEB POE. 

To the Toiling Millions. 

Once, when I was weak and weary, 
And the day was cold and dreary, 
I was famished, almost starving ~ 

Ragged were the clothes I wore, 
I was thinking of suspensions, 
And the railroad king's intentions, 
For they were then in convention, 

Planning as they planned before ; 
'Tis monopoly, I whispered, 

And the wolf is at our door — 

This it is and nothing more. 

Thus for hours I sat and pondered, 
Sat and closed my eyes and wondered — 
Wondered why these men of millions 

Were not like the men of yore ; 
But the answer came — 'tis fashion, 
Hoarding gold to please their passion, 
With fancy teams forever dashing — 

Dashing past the poor man's door ; 
Scornfully they look and mutter, 

As they pass the poor man's door : 

" Our slaves — and nothing more." 

Your slaves ? Aye, chained and fettered, 
" Slave" on every brow is lettered ; 
You will sign to our conditions, 

Or we'll grind you to the floor ; 
You have, with a weak subjection, 
Severed every free connection. 
U. S. troops are our protection ; 

You have signed your names — ye swore 

To obey — and nothing more. 



178 THE POET SCOUT.. 

Oh, ye gods ! And must we languish. 

In our poverty and anguish ? 

Starve while money kings are planning 

How to keep their gold in store ? 
Is our country not enlightened, 
Or its heads like cowards frightened, 
That the reins should not be tightened 

On these robbers of the poor ? 
Yes ! The toiling mass can do it ! — 

We have changed such things before ; 

Give them power — never more. 

While corruption reigns in office, 
Every knave and fool and novice, 
For a sum of filthy lucre 

Will betray his trust— and more : 
They will legislate to press you, 
And in every way distress you ; 
Yet they'll meet you and caress you, 

But they're traitors to the core. 
They will swear by all that's holy — 

For your vote — but nothing more. 

Look toward the broad Atlantic, 
See a million starving, frantic — 
Bread or blood is what they're asking — 

Blood or bread to feed the poor, 
Begging bread for which they're slaving- 
Dangers on the railroad braving, 
Want and hunger ever craving, 

Gnawing deep into the core, 
While the railroad gods are basking 

On the Long Branch sunny shore : 

These are facts — and nothing more. 

Must we beg to be in fetters ? 
Are these railroad kings our betters, 
That we must like slaves approach them, 
While our wants they still ignore ? 



THE POOH man's soliloquy. 179 

No ! There must be some reaction ; 
Something done to crush this faction — 
Labor must have satisfaction, 

Though grim death stood at our door. 
Shall 1 tell you how to get it — 

How to strike corruption's core ? 

Vote for tricksters— never more. 

Oh, ye sons of toil and danger, 
Christ was cradled in a manger — 
He was poor and weak and lowly, 

Yet for us the cross He bore ; 
But the rich-robed fiends they tried Him, 
Persecuted and denied Him, 
And with robbers crucified Him, 

Just for being Christ— and poor ; 
Just because he killed corruption, 

Jesus died— and nothing more. 

Can such beings ask for pardon, 
While their hearts they ever harden ? 
Can they ask for peace from Heaven, 

"While its laws they still ignore ? 
No, by all the hosts above us— 
By the broken hearts that love us — 
By the tears of many millions 

Of the wronged, down-trodden poor — 
They can never reach that heaven 

Until hell is frozen o'er, 
Which the Reverend Mr. Moody 

Tells us will be— never more. 



180 THE POET SCOUT. 



THE FIRST FLOWER OF MAY. 

In May, 1870, a band of Sioux drove off fourteen head of our hordes, and after 
two days' chase we regained seven of theui ; but, owing to the Indians having a 
chaDge of horses, we failed to secure any scalps. On the first evening, after a 
hard day's ride, we camped in a pleasant valley near a cooling spring of water. 
Frank Smith (Antelope Frank, as we called him) and myself had ridden about 
three miles further, in hopes of getting a sight of the Indian camp, and it was on 
our return to the valley mentioned above, and a vnison supper, that we laid 
down to rest under a spreading pine, when the incidents occurred which called 
forth the following verses. 

A daisy ! the first I had seen in the spring, 

Was peeping from under the sod ; 
The air was so chilly, the wind was so cold, 

That I fear'd the fair daisy had made rather bold 
To ascend from the earth's warmer clod. 

Just then a fair skylark flew heavenward to sing 
Sweet anthems, in praise to his God. 

How sweet to the traveller those soul-stirring notes, 

When weary with riding all clay ! 
Indeed, it was joy to my comrade and me — 

The lark in the sky, and the flower on the lea, 
And our weariness soon passed away. 

That night 'round the camp-fire we tuned up our throats 
And sang of the first flower of May. 



FAREWELL. 




Deab reader, farewell, the affliction is o'er— 
Your powers of endurance astound me ; 

With my horse I am off for the trail once more, 
Where the wandering muse first found me. 



A NEW BOOK BY JOSIAH ALLEN'S 
WLFE. 

SWEET CICELY.— A temperance story of the Josiah Allen's 
Wife's Series. Of thrilling interest. Over 100 illustrations, 
12mo, cloth $2.00. (Ready Oct. '85.) 

" Josiah Allen's Wife " has always been a shrewd observer of 
human nature as it reveals itself in the round of homely, every 
day life, and the keen sarcasm and adroit humor -with which 
she lays bear its fo.bles, its weaknesses and its grotesque out- 
croppings has rarely, if ever, been equaled. The strong feature 
of all Miss Holley's humor, is its moral tone. The present 
work will treat the " temperance sentiment" in new phase — 
that of a semi-humorous novel. 

SOME OPINIONS OF "JOSIAH ALLEN'S WIFE": 
The Woman's Journal, Boston: "The keen sarcasm, cheerful 
wit and cogent arguments of her books have convinced thous- 
ands of the 'folly of their ways,' for wit can pierce where 
grave counsel fails." 

The Herald, New York: " Her fun is not far-fetched, but easy 
and spontaneous. She is now witty, now pathetic, yet ever 
strikingly original." 

The Home Journal, New York : " She is one of the most origi- 
nal humorists of the day." 

The New Era, Lancaster, Pa.: "Undoubtedly one of the 
truest humorists. Nothing short of a cast-iron man can resist 
the exquisite, droll and contagious mirth of her writings." 



FUNK & WAGNALLS, 10-12 Dey Street, New York. 



ARCHIBALD MALMAISON. 

A New Novel. By Julian Hawthorne, nmo, paper, 15 cts.; 
cloth, extra paper, 75 cts. 

INDEPENDENT, N. Y. " Mr. Julian Hawthorne can choose no 
better compliment upon his new romance, ' Archibald Malmai- 
son,' than the assurance that he has at last put forth astory which 
reads as if the manuscript, written in his father's indecipherable 
handwriting and signed ' Nathaniel Hawthorne,' had lain shut into 
a desk for twenty-five years, to be only just now pulled out and 
printed. It is a masterful romance ; short, compressed, terribly 
dramatic in its important situations, based upon a psychologic 
idea as weird and susceptible of startling treatment as possible. 
It is a book to be read through in two hour?, but to dwell in the 
memory forever. The employment of the central theme and the 
literary conduct of the plot is nearly beyond criticism." 

R. H. STODDARD, IN NEW YORK MAIL AND EXPRESS. 
" Ihe climax is so terrible, as the London Times has pointed out, 
and so dramatic in its intensity, that it is impossible to class it 
with any situation of modern fiction. . . Mr. Hawthorne is 
clearly and easily the first of living romancers." 

THE LONDON TIMES. " After perusal of this weird, fantastic 
tale (Archibald Malmaison), it must be admitted that upon the 
shoulders of Julian Hawthorne has descended in no small degree 
the mantle of his more illustrious father. The climax is so terrible, 
and so dramatic in its intensity, that it is impossible to cla^s it 
with any situation 01* modern fiction. There is much psychologi- 
cal ingenuity shown in some of the more subtle touches that lend 
an air of reality to this wild romance." 

THE LONDON GLOBE. " • Archibald Malmaison ' is one of the 
most daring attempts to set the wildest fancy masquerading in the 
cloak of science, which has ever, perhaps been made. Mr. Haw- 
thorne has managed to combine the almost perfect construction of 
atypical French novelist, with a more than typically German 
power of conception." 

THE ACADEMY. •' Mr. Hawthorne has a more powerful imagin- 
ation than any contemporary writer of fiction. He has the very 
uncommon gift of taking hold of the reader's attention at once, 
and the still more uncommon gift of maintaining his grasp when it 
is fixed." 

FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers, 10 & 12 Dey St., N. Y. 



THE FORTUNES OF RACHEL. 

A New Novel. By Edward Everett Hale. i2mo, paper, 25c; 

cloih, $1. 
CHRISTIAN UNION; N. Y. " Probably no American has a more 
devoted constituency of readers than Mr. Edward Everett Hale, 
and to all these his latest s.ory, ' 1 he Fortunes of Rachel,' will 
bring genuine pleasure. Mr. Hale is emphatically a natural 
writer; he loves to interpret common things and to deal with aver- 
age persms. He does this with s-uch insight, with such noble 
conception of life and of his work, that he discovers that profound 
interest which belongs to the humblest as truly as to the most 
brilliant forms of life. . . . This story is a thoroughly Ameri- 
can novel, ful'l of incident, rich in strong traits of character, and 
full of stimulatingthought; it is wholesome and elevating.'' 

BOSTON JOURNAL. " The virtue of the book is the healthful, 
encouraging, kindly spirit which prevades it, and which will help 
one to battle with ad verse circumstances, as indeed, all Mr. Hale's 
stories hove helped." 

NEW YORK JOURNAL OF COMMERCE. "A pure'y 
American story, original all through, and Rachel is one of the 
pleasantest and most satisfactory of heroines. She is a girl of the 
soil, unspoiled by foreign travels and conventionalites. After 
suneiung on romances whose scenes are laid abroad, it is delight- 
ful to come across a healthy home product like this." 

RUTHERFORD. 

A New Novel. By Edgar Fawcett. Author rf'An Ambitious 

IVoman," "A Gentleman of Leisure," A Hopeless Case," 

" Tinkling Cytnbals," etc. 12H10, paper, 25 cts; 

c.oth, extra paper, $1.00. 

BOSTON GLOBE. " Truly Mr. Fawcett has here wrought with 
skill in producing some original and btrautilul characters. J he 
motive and plan are those of a better book than he has ever writ- 
ten. . . Rutherford is poweiful and will contribute much to 
the reputation of its clever authcr." 

SAT. EVENING GAZETTE, Boston. " This story evinces grace 
as well as facility of style, is effectively told throughout, and in 
its plot and characters, is decidedly interesting. The sympathies 
of the reader are keenly enlisted for two of the characierswho have 
been reduced from wealth to poverty, and the relation of their ex- 
periences in the latter form of life affords opportunity for a very 
effective exhibition of this p*ia=e of New York experience. The 
book is one of the most elaborate of Mr. Fawcett's novels." 

NEW YORK TRIBUNE. " Mr. Fawcett's story. ' Rutherfo-d,' 
is more serious in plan than most of his society novel? ; it has a 
motive which is not only tragical, but impressive. . . . It is 
well constructed, and contains >ome excellent sketches of fash. on- 
able life and touches of satire." 

FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers, 10 & 12 Dey St., N, Y. 



MEMORIE AND RIME. 

A Book of Poems, Sketches, Reminiscences. By Joaquin Miller. 
i2mo paper, 25 cts.; cloth, $1.00. 

A series of charming sketches of travel, stories of Western life, 
poems, and reminiscences of famous men the author has known. 
Mr. Miller has a great advantage over most writers, in that his 
material has been furnished by his own romantic and adventurous 
life. There is a glow of poetic fervor in all his writings that 
kindles the reader's interest irresistably. 



ST. LOUIS OBSERVER. " Full of the flavor and freshness of 
the West. . . Thoroughly American in spirit and tone. 
His verse is distinctly national; it has all the breadth and 
sweep of the immense prairies and rugged uplands of the west- 
ern half of the continent. It is strong in thought, powerful in 
diction." 

BOSTON GAZETTE. " The volume in its humor, its pathos, 
and its satire, is in Mr. Miller's best vein and the poems are 
as spirited as any he has written." 

CHRISTIAN INTELLIGENCER [N. K). "Theauthoris widely 
known as one of the most entertaining writers of the present 
day. This volume is bright and breezy; humor and pathos being 
happily blended," 



49; or, THE GOLD SEEKER of the SIERRAS. 

A volume of Western Stories. By Joaquin Miller. i2mo paper, 
15 cis.; cloth, 75 cts. 
INTER-OCEAN, CHICAGO. "No writer has so vividly and 
truthfully pictured the wild Western life upon the plains and in 
the mining camps, as has Mr. Miller. He hns studied its char- 
acters and learned weil his lessons, and when they st.-.nd out 
upon the canvass they seem to be real, and not fancy sketches. 
This book abounds in life-like incidents and escapades, such as 
every miner's boy has seen. It abounds in strong dramatic 
situations, swift alternations between pathos and humor, and 
delicate poetic iateipretations of nature." 

SATURDAY EVENING GAZETTE, BOSTON. "The vigor, 
picturesqueness, strength and genuine leeiing with which the 
story is told, impresses upon the reader an irresistable charm." 

THE LONDON GLOBE. "To follow him is like following 
a keen, swift rider, who rides eagerly, it matters not whither, 
and who attracts us by a wild grace and a beautiful skill as he 
rushes throueh scenes of luxuriant loveliness that would cause a 
less impetuous horseman to pause and linger." 



FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers, 10 & n Dey St., N. Y. 



MUMU, AND THE DIAR Y OF A SUPER. 
FLU O US MAN. 

Two powerful Novels, descriptive of Serf and upper-class life in 

Russia. By Ivan Turgenieff. In one volume. i2mo, 

paper, 15 cts.; cloth, extra paper, 75 cts. 

N. V. TRIBUNE. "His characters are vital ; they suffer with a 
pathos that irresistably tcuches the reader to sympathy. Those 
who would write in the same vein get merely his admirable man- 
ner, full of reserve, of self-restraint, of joyless patience; but 
while under this surface with Turgenieff lie throbbing arteries 
and quivering flch, his imitators offer us nothing more than lay 
figures in whose fortunes it is impossible to take any lively interest. 
They represent before us only poor phases of modern society, 
while Turgenieff has explained to us a nation and shown the p'ay 
of emotions that are as old as the world and as new as the hour in 
which they were born." 

LITERARY WORLD, Boston. "These two stories are unques- 
tionably to be ranked among their author's masterpieces. 
' Mumu' will bear a great amount of study; it marks out a whole 
method in fiction." 

LIPPINCOTTS MAGAZINE, Phila. "There are somehalf dozen 
of lurgenieff's short stories absolutely perfect each in its way, 
but none, perhaps, quite so exquisitely as 'Mumu' shows the 
great artist's power to transfigure to our eyes the tenderness, 
passion, agonies, which lie beyond speech and almost beyond 
sign, in tl.e silent heart of a strong, simple man." 



HIMSELF AGAIN. 



A New Novel. By J. C. Goldsmith. i2mo, paper, 25 cts.; cloth, 
extra paper, $r.oo. 

THE BOSTON GLOBE. " Its peculiar qualities are its delinea- 
tions of eccentric character which is notably free and bold, and 
its familiarity with many kinds of present American life and man- 
ners, and its original realistic treatment. . ■ Beneath the 
sprightly dash with which the story is outlined and filled, there is 
conscious strong power. It is finely written, and of decided 
merit." 

THE EVENING POST, HARTFORD. " Unlike most novels, the 
first chapters of this remarkable ttory are the weakest. But let 
the reader persevere and he will find opened to him a wonderful 
world of novel and interesting characters, a valuable and unique 
philosophy, and an almost unsurpassed background of American 
city and country scenery." 

BOSTON AD VERTISER. " The writer displays more than aver- 
age insight into the workings of human nature, and the nataralness 
of his character-drawing is no doubt the secret of the special 
attraction that lies in the book." 



FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers, 10 & 12 Dey St., N. Y. 



THE HO YT WARD CYCLOPEDIA OF PRAC- 
TICAL QUOTATIONS. 

Prose and Poetry. Nearly 20,000 Quotations and 50,000 lines of 
Concordance. 

It contains the celebrated quotations and all the useful Proverbs 
and Mottoes from the Knghsh, Latin, French, German, Italian, 
Spanish and Portuguese, classified according to subjects. Latin 
Law Terms and Phrases, Legal Maxims, etc. (all with translations). 

It has a vast concordance of nearly 50,000 lines, by which any 
quotation of note may at once be found and traced to its source. It 
is to quotations what Young's or Cruden's Concordance is to the 
Bible. 

Its Table of Contents: Index of Authors, giving date of birth, 
nativity, etc.; Topical Index with Cross References, Index of Sub. 
jects, Index of Translation, together with its immense Concordance 
and many other features desirable in a work of reference, combinn 
to make this Cyclopaedia what it is, 

THE ONLY STANDARD BOOK OF QUOTATIONS. 

Invaluable to the Statesman, Lawyer Editor, Public Speaker, 
Teacher or General Reader. 



NOAH PORTER, D.D., LL.D., Pres. Yale College. "It will 
be a help and a pleasure to many." 

HON. SAMUEL J. RANDALL, WASHINGTON. "The 
best book of quotations which I have seen." 

GEO.F. EDMUNDS, U. S. SENATOR. " It is the most com- 
plete and best work of the kind with which I am acquainted." 

HON.ABRAMS. HEWITT. "The completeness of its indices 
is simply astonishing." 

HON. F. T. FRELINGHUYSEN, Secretary of State. "Am 
much p'.-eased with the Cyclopaedia of Quotations." 

HENRY WARD B EEC HER. "Good all the way through, 
especially the proverbs of all nations." 

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. " Can hardly fail to be a very 
successful and favorite volume." 

WENDELL PHILLIPS. "Its variety and fullness and the 
completeness of its index gives it rare value to the scholar." 

Royal octavo, over 900 pp, Cloth, $5.00; Sheep, fi. 50: Fancy 
Cloth, Extra Gilt, {7.50; Half Morocco, Gilt, $8.00; Full Morocco, 
Extra Finish and Gilt, f 10.00. 



FUNK & WAGN ALLS, Publishers, 10 & ia Dey St., N. Y. 



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